The Year that Left With Me: Being Eight

 Dear 25,

You are my eight. You know, numerologically, it is a late number. Like me. I am  a default eight. Also, I am a default four. I was born eight. I was born four. Numbers are confusing, so are years. My Nepali calendar made me eight. The everyday use, Georgian calendar made me four. I am a late number. I am numerologically bodyless; I have just a head to think, not a body to execute. There are confusions. I am numerologically confused like everyone else. But, you know, neither I am heartless nor I am too late. I was born before my time. Maybe I will go before my time. Like years. Dear 25, you came late, but you are not late.

Dear 25, you left like a wonderful year, like every ending sentence. Every starting sentence comes with confusion, but an ending sentence always gives something to cherish. I think you were the same. You started with confusion and ended up with a purpose. I must say, it was a wonderful year.  The year from which  I can take something if needed. The most beautiful thing was that I wrote a lot. In fact, I wrote every day. I wrote as if the first time I learnt writing.  I wrote almost every day. But the truth is I wrote every other day at least.

Dear 25, you made me stronger. The end of February was not easy. But you made it easier. I let go of everything in their own way. You gave me a purpose. You taught me how to say no. You taught me how to write my parents. In fact, 25 was a learning year. All year, I was just a learner. I unlearned. Also, I learnt. Who cares, life makes you a learner in every alternative year.

Dear 25,  Thank you for everything. Glimpses and detailing. Black and white. But more than everything else, the grays that were left with me. The books. The family.  The friends. Stories. People. My high school kids, who were a little rowdy in the classroom but gave me a sense of sanity. Strangers who smiled in a public vehicle. Flowers who woke up with me like every Sunday morning before the chirp of birds. Last but not least all the things that came as a stranger and left like a stranger.

Dear 25, you are my eight. There is a reason to address you eight. In fact, you are seven. I hate seven. You are my eight. Let’s damn care about numerology. Let’s damn care about numbers. Like every confusion under the sun, we are also confused. Let’s forget about numerology and make our own numbers. You are my eight. Splendid eight. Fast forward eight. Eight that has a purpose. Eight that loves letters. Eight that loves stories. Eight who loves kids. Eight that loves work. Dear 25, let’s wrap up being eight.