It’s 7:26 am on the first day of you, and I’d like to explain a few things before you get the ball rolling too hard. You are not a year of grief, though there will be moments of grieving. You are not a January of quiet frenzy, of missing your father too much to know how to grieve him. You are not a February completely forgotten or a March spent lying in bed, cowering. You are not the harried April or May of fixing up and selling a house with a man who hates you for every minute of it. You are not a June of panicked, unhappy travel or a July in the woods, again with a man who hates you enough to leave you there after all the plans you’ve made together. You aren’t the tears spread throughout these months. You aren’t the heart-racing panic attacks over half-built bridges on rainy mountain nights. You aren’t August too weak to move or to eat, the August in which your aunt-and-uncle and then your mother and grandmother have to feed you, to look on sadly as you wander the minefields of breakdown. You aren’t September’s recovering alone in a friend’s empty house, teaching yourself how to eat again, how to think again, though the recovery will be remembered with joy. You aren’t a drive slantwise across country in October chasing the sun’s trajectory, though you could be that again someday, to somewhere, to the wanderer who is you. You aren’t a November full of new, paralyzing faces in a new, paralyzing place. But please reflect the results of it: bravery and independence in the face of the fire. You aren’t December, a month of learning who you were and what you’re made of, a month of shedding fear layer by filmy layer. Again, you’ll remember December like a tattoo of December on your breastbone. 2015, I don’t know yet who you are, but I know you won’t be your younger sister. I know you’ll be clearer and fuller and imbued with the sweet light of early morning before anyone’s awake because they’ve all been partying all night. But you haven’t been. You’ve been quietly waiting in the wings for the moment to snap to attention. At the crack of dawn, you’re stretching your wings, loosening your joints, letting the day come slowly, with gratitude.