I used to hate the short, dark days of December. I’d sink into them. Sulk. Play the Blues. Then I spent one New Years in Iceland. It was dark but for two hours of twilight midday. Two white swans floated on the placid pond in Reykjavik. Time passed slowly. We sipped Scotch at 6. Huddled before the fire. I’ve switched it around now, in my head, so today, the shortest day of the year, I almost feel regret as the days grow longer, the light comes back and I begin counting the days till the light again begins to wane.