አደይ አበባ coming

Years change faster than my breath. The new year comes by, but I am not sure how to represent it. Once upon a time, I was excited like a little girl who was waiting for her father until he came home. I felt giddy; I was all smiley-faced. I was hoping to find him carrying something on his hands. It was never about the amount or the content, but about receiving something from him. The expectation was like a sweet perfume that made me crave more. I was that little girl who was excited until her father brought her some sweet bread. Some days it would be a bottle of milk or some fruits. I would be looking for the banana because it was for me. I wouldn't worry about my neighbors who could be getting a cake or some sweets. I was all fine with what I was getting. The new year was all about a change, a sign that showed me I was alive. It was never about what would happen to me but what it would bring for me. All I cared about was the arrival, not the aftermath. After all, I was just a little girl.

Deep inside me, I still want to be that little girl who was just excited by the act of her dad coming home. She loved waiting for him impatiently; she believed the wait was worth it. She didn't care about what he brought; she only wanted something he thought would be suitable for the night. Some nights, he came empty-handed, yet he hugged her tightly so what he brought wasn't questioned at all. For that little girl, life was all about the wait; it was all about what her little Brian could comprehend. Life was in the middle of a compound full of roses, with the sunset coming gracefully. No one told her waiting could be exhausting and mostly disappointing. Life was beyond her imagination; it was everything she didn't even dream about. The roses decieved her; they weren't only beautiful but full of thorns too. That little girl saw herself as an innocent being; no one told her she was just a naive cub in the lions den.

Now I am a woman who is just anxious about him coming home. My thoughts always wonder around the content or the amount. I hope he will bring me a new dress or maybe a pretty blouse. I hope he made more money today; I need to ask more tomorrow. I wonder what my neighbor got yesterday—pretty clothes or delectable treats—more nice stuff than me? I am a woman now; I need to stand out from the crowd, right? The new year became beyond the numbers. It isn't a mere change; the type of change matters too. What would it bring me? New achievements, new life perspectives, possible'successes'? What is in the basket? I wouldn't like it if it didn't bring me anything. Yet I for sure would hate it if it brought me sadness and misfortune. Being a woman wasn't easy, like being a little girl. I was forced to compete with others; everyone would look at me and question me, 'Look at them and look where you are.' I was never given የማርያም መንገድ that would help me escape the curious eyes. What did you wear? How did you look? Who proposed to you? Who did you marry? Do you have kids? How many? ... I was always under the eyes of everyone; everyone whispered to me, 'Look at your neighbor; she is becoming this while you are all invested in waiting.' And guess what? The answer was all in the NEW YEAR.

A new year could be new just like the name or just a year like the one right now. It could be about so many memorable moments or just collections of days. The new year has a good chance of adding someone new to my life or just taking away those I thought I had. It is all under ambiguity and vagueness. But one thing is for sure: whether I was the little girl or just a randon woman The new year is coming. It is New Year again.