A New Year’s Eve

Throughout most of my childhood my Father had a friend who appeared only on New Year’s Eve.

I still remember his name, Jack Rice, and that every December 31st, Dad told our family,

“Jack Rice will make a New Years Eve call tonight.”

This, of course, was to alert Mom to prepare for the annual guest.

Unfortunately, I no longer precisely recall when Mr. Rice’s traditional visits ended.

Possibly I was asleep on that last sad night of the memorable year when Dad’s good friend no longer knocked on the wooden door to our tenement apartment.

However, this year, half a century later, I remembered Mr. Rice when I decided to make my own New Year’s Eve visit;

Though the magic of the internet and the ability to save images, I returned to the home I left seven years ago.

Of course, the house was empty. The internet does not have quite the talent to restore yesterday.

But it came close.

I revisited the kitchen and wistfully, remembered the frantic kitchen preparations for our Annual Christmas party.

For a fleeting second, I almost believed I could still hear the laughter and loud voices of our friends of yesteryear.

Monetarily, I embraced the pleasures of having a wall oven without any need to bend when retrieving the endless trays of butter cookies my daughter and I traditionally baked.

And yes, I traveled through the bedrooms and while I didn’t drink the annual holiday toast, I did sip from a goblet of nostalgia as I moved up the stairs.

That was where our children slept, and grew and eventually tumbled down the carpeted stairs to seek their fortunes.

One room eventually became my office; another, a refuge for my beloved’s last days.

I knew then it was time to leave.

The dregs in the goblet reminded me what Dad’s friend, Jack Rice, had taught me long ago.

New Year’s Eve calls should be brief, and so I, too, departed.