As I dragged the step stool over to the far corner of the kitchen, I wondered just shy of aloud how it could be that we were ending another year. How it could be time to hang a new calendar.
Created in 1966 by Massimo Vignelii, the Stendig calendar has always been part of my consciousness, but it wouldn’t be until 2016, 50 years after its inception, that I’d have a wall to hang my own.
It arrived at a time of loss.
Our first calendar went up in July 2016, sandwiched in between RD’s departure in September 2015 and my father’s in August 2016, when time felt particularly surreal and precious.
Looking back, I think I used the change unfolding in our apartment to distract myself from the lack of control I felt in my larger universe.
We found someone to install 3 heavy-duty steel pegs in our cement wall and MoMA somehow found a single 2016 calendar buried deep in their stockroom (the calendar is produced in limited quantities each year and generally unavailable by the start of the new year).
On the wall, the calendar felt like order amidst a sea of swirling chaos. With its unfussy Helvetica type, it was straightforward and calming: a thing of beauty.
I didn’t anticipate what it would feel like to peel back July to make way for August.
My dad left us in the early days of August and the weeks leading up to that day were a blur, so changing the month on our Stendig wasn’t a priority.
As I tore the oversized July from our wall, giving way to August, it struck me that my dad would not see this month. RD would not see this month. How could time be continuing at its usual pace?
September’s arrival felt the same. October. November. December too.
I unfurled 2017 and rolled it in the opposite direction so it would lay flat. Or flatter.
Still, it curled.
As I peeled off each month, I still felt incomplete. And so it continued. Life without people who can’t truly be gone. And then more loss on top of that loss.
Years ended. New calendars were hung. Time marched on. The Stendig held its ground. And we persevered.
Pulling 2024’s calendar from its tube, I rolled it in the opposite direction and wedged it to stay in place. Several hours later, I dragged the step stool from one end of the wall to the other, and with care, removed December 2023 from its perch, and hung 2024 in its place. For the first time in almost 8 years, it lay flat.
A little light. A little hope.
With our step stool back in place, I stepped back to access the wall. January 2024.
A new page.
May it be a year of peace, of love, and not hate, of light and hope.
