It's New Year's Eve. In New York City.

Your vision would be Carrie Bradshaw and lights. Or champagne and Al Capone. Even my damn iPhone is auto correcting every single word to 'champagne' or 'whiskey' regardless of what I type after the words 'New Years in New York City.'

But the reality is:
- gridlock traffic
- two sick siblings
- smell of pot from down the hall and stairwell shaft
- 'I don't know what you talking 'bout, bitch!' (Screamed, not spoken) echoing up the stairwell shaft as revelers party below.

I shift on the couch where I have stretched out to bunk down for the night.

I'm about as far away from the quiet of Bapaumes and Nerac and chateaux as you can get.

I remember my first New Year's in Nérac. Stone chateau, cold winter. Just me and the dogs who were howling along with my top-of-the-lungs rendition of Annie Lennox's 'Here comes the rain again...'

And a walk at midnight into the garden.... Quiet. Frost. Heavy leather coat wrapped with the fur side inward all around me. One singular shooting star.

'Ooh child, things are gonna get easier,' sings a female voice downstairs.

I dream so.

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