On the last day of 2014, I helped three little girls bury a found dead bird, ate stinky cheese on crackers with afternoon sun warming my face and the red-brown bricks behind me, welcomed my Grandpa home from a dramatic but brief hospital stay, and was asked to describe my personal Follows-You-Around Ghost (to which I replied, “I don’t know, but maybe it’s like a cross between a really fat chicken, a tree, and a lizard,” to which the eight-year-old replied, “Lainey, you’re going to have to draw a picture of that because I don’t know what you’re talking about” — see below). At the moment 2015 quietly overtook the old year at 122.45789° W, I was prancing around a large collection of flaming wood (see HighLight) with a small collection of spit-sparkles in hand while the moon lowered through pines and bright orange embers mixed with stars.