We did what we wanted to do: we torched 2023 calendars, let ’em burn to ashes.

You know that 2023 was the worst year in our family’s life. You know, too, the reason why the now-former year is loathed by my family and me. What you see in the picture attached to this post is a calendar turned to February, the month our family agony began in earnest.

What I haven’t discussed on this blog is the reason for the calendar-burning.

The idea came from a long-time friend and former colleague. He made the suggestion believing it would cleanse my emotional reservoir. Hell, even the prospect of burning the calendars has given me relief from the anguish that lingered for almost the entirety of 2023.

I know it’s only a symbolic act. No symbolism will cure us of the pain we endured with the passing of my dear bride, Kathy Anne, the mother of my sons. The cure — and I use the term with an abundance of caution — will come chiefly from time.

But lighting the calendars is a start of a new year that I plan to insist is far better than the year we just ushered onto the trash heap.

Happy new year everyone. May it bring you all great joy. I intend to reap all the joy possible that 2024 brings to my family and me.