January arrives quietly,
carrying the scent of leftovers and regret.
–
The tree is gone,
but the crumbs remain.
So does the hooman.
–
They lie on the sofa like a forgotten loaf,
wrapped in blankets that once smelled festive
and now smell like snacks.
–
I watch from the armrest,
tail neatly tucked,
judging with love.
–
December was loud.
December was generous.
–
Food appeared endlessly,
plates multiplied,
hands were always busy.
–
The hooman ate like it was their last winter,
laughing between bites,
promising they would deal with it later.
–
Later has arrived,
and it looks very tired.
Now it is January.
–
The hooman groans when they stand,
sighs when they sit,
and sighs again just to be sure.
–
They scroll on the glowing rectangle,
whispering words like
fresh start,
new habits,
this year will be different.
–
I have heard these words before.
I heard them last year.
I heard them the year before that,
right after the biscuits.
–
They say things like,
“I will wake up early,”
while not waking up early.
–
They say,
“I will eat better,”
while staring into the fridge
as if expecting forgiveness.
–
They say,
“I will move more,”
then choose the chair that is closest.
I help by sitting on their lap.
–
This is support.
This is accountability.
–
They talk to me while making lists
they will lose.
–
They drink water like it is medicine.
They stretch for exactly six seconds
and announce they are exhausted.
–
I blink slowly
so they know I understand.
–
Change is hard.
Especially when the sofa remembers your shape.
–
January light is softer.
Less dramatic.
Honest.
–
It falls across the room
and finds the hooman
mid promise,
mid snack,
mid plan.
–
They look at me and say,
“We will be better this year.”
I purr.
Optimism deserves encouragement.
–
By mid-month,
the promises grow quieter.
–
The loaf returns.
Not fully baked,
but familiar.
–
The hooman stops announcing change
and starts existing again.
–
This is progress.
–
They scratch behind my ears
with less guilt
and more presence.
–
I allow this.
–
January is not about transformation.
It is about recovery.
–
It is the month where hoomans
forgive themselves slowly.
–
Where resolutions melt into intentions.
Where overindulgence becomes memory,
and comfort becomes routine again.
–
I nap beside them
as they accept who they are,
at least for now.
–
By the end of the month,
the hooman laughs at themselves.
–
That is my favorite sound.
–
They may not keep their promises,
but they keep me fed,
warm,
and loved.
–
That is enough for January.
–
And so January settles in properly,
not with fireworks or declarations,
but with quiet acceptance.
–
The hooman learns to move gently
through the days,
to forgive the extra spoonfuls,
the missed mornings,
the promises that dissolved
like sugar in tea.
–
I remain close,
an unspoken reminder
that comfort is not failure.
–
It is survival with softness.
–
Outside, the world asks for ambition.
Inside, we choose warmth.
–
The hooman sighs,
scratches my chin,
and whispers,
“Maybe next month.”
–
I close my eyes.
–
Next month is fine.
© Oh Erik 2026 – Sarah-Leigh Wills.