A Time To Address What Lingers Unfinished

20260101

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 5” event.

Cathie looked up from her half-filled page of resolutions as the clock struck eleven. The new year was only an hour away. Which meant… yes, she could hear rustling outside her door. Well, she was about due a break. Might as well tackle another aspect of tidying for next year.
So she stood and stretched and opened the door to the hall, revealing a polite queue of living objects and manifested concepts. While Cathie knew several people who went to bed early on New Year’s Eve (even taking sleeping meds if necessary) to avoid facing their abandoned or forgotten projects, personally she felt it was healthful to check in like this.
Oh yes, that scrapbook of her and Jim’s childhood memories! Yes, she still wanted to finish that. Too late for Christmas now, but maybe she could get it done for a birthday present? No, wait - split the album up and give it to them for Fathers and Mothers Days. She scribbled a note on her resolutions sheet, and the album and box of photos waddled away back to the closet.
Next in line was the three-quarters finished cardigan. The project Nana had been working on when she… Cathie knelt down and give it a tight hug. Tears springing up at that dear once-familiar smell. It’d been years. The yarn held only a whiff of Nana usually. But in this magical hour it’s as if the bag was just on Nana’s bedside.
“I’m sorry.” Cathie whispered. Not bothering to try and hide the tremor in her voice. “I’m not ready to complete you. I don’t know if I ever will be. But I can’t let you go.”
The cardigan returned the hug, careful not to poke her with the pins holdings its pieces together, and gently patted her back. It understood. And she was deeply grateful.
Next in line… Oh. Cathie always felt bad, saying “I’d forgotten about you” to a project. But she suspected the wadded-up lopsided bit of crochet already knew that. Where had the poor thing wriggled out from? Never mind that now.
While she did still intend to learn, there was no salvaging this, so she removed the hook and unravelled the failed tea-towel. The yarn sighed with relief as it was returned to a skein. Ready to be used. The crochet hook likewise tinkled cheerfully when dropped back into the cracked picture mug holding its friends, the answering rattle a welcoming chorus.
Alright. This next one was a concept, not a physical project. It looked like… a ghostly old-fashioned shop register? “Ohh, right. I’m still thinking about you. Realistically I doubt anything will happen this year, but… and it’s not like I’m unhappy at work, I just…” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll keep thinking, and we’ll see how this year goes.”
Her half-formed dreams of becoming a professional knitwear designer nodded and dissipated.
Which left… her other WIPs, most of whom were easy “Yes, I’ll finish you this year, or at least make good progress”, plus one where, now that it was gazing forbearingly at her, she could finally admit she hated the yarn texture and was never going to finish the blanket like this.
“I’ll frog you tomorrow, and give the yarn away. Offer it at the next meet.”
Satisfied, the knitting projects slithered back to her craft space. Now it was just the odd projects. Half-finished DIY jobs, goals which had fallen by the wayside, and frustrations she hadn’t managed to articulate, much less address.
She’d filled the page and half of another with resolutions - and things to wrap up - by the time the queue was finished. Still almost a quarter of the magic hour to go. She’d check the house in case one was stuck somewhere - though usually the others would alert her if that happened. But she wanted to get a fresh drink anyways.
So Cathie stood up and stretched and smiled down at her notes. She’d done quite well this year, she felt. Try and carry that forward to the next.
And, if it didn’t work out, well… she knew from past experience that all the projects would wait very patiently, checking in each New Year’s Eve, until she was ready.

Prompt was “On New Year’s Eve, every abandoned project, forgotten intention, and half-written story takes physical form. They gather at the threshold between years, waiting to see if you’ll claim them or release them. Some of them have been waiting a very long time.”