from the top of the stairs

30 Jan, 2026

Little Girl Looking Downstairs at Christmas Party (1964) by Norman Rockwell

My grandmother has been calling me lately to tell me about how lonely she is feeling this January. The constant winter storms are only making things worse in a month that is already hard to bear even at the best of times. I regret that the distance between us means that there is very little I can offer her right now other than a phone call. In our conversations, we talk about time passing slowly on the cold days and about all the people whose phone calls we are anticipating and all the people we miss. I admire her ability to keep it together during these calls. I cannot yet imagine what it must be like to be ninety and feeling the ache of missing a full lifetime of people.

Last week I told her about a memory. In it, I am seven years old and it is January 2nd. I am crying and my heart has already learned to overpower my brain. It is the day after 'the holidays' which means that everyone I love has packed up and left and gone back to their own homes after spending Christmas and New Years celebrating with us. I am missing the hum of the people and the joy of having others in my space, kids to play with and adults to talk to. I am missing the feeling of sitting at the top of the stairs in the middle of the night, listening to the adults chattering about everything and nothing down below. Even at seven I know that I want the rest of my life to be spent with others in gentle company and joy. Life is meant to be experienced together.

The feeling of the after-party is a very hollow one and it has followed me throughout my life. It's a sort of loneliness mixed with nostalgia. And in that feeling, it is easy to be seven again and alone in bed, knees tucked to chest and missing the hum of the people you can no longer hear.

I told my grandmother I loved her and that I would call her again soon.

In these January nights I am thinking a lot about gathering and parties and people after moving to my new city last month. I spent a few early days here living alone while my roommates were away, with limited visitors. After Em's 24-hour stint in the city, I remember sitting alone, in her absence, in my empty apartment, lamenting at the lack of hum. In 2026, I am seven again, sitting quietly and aching to have people around.

I suppose I am not meant to live alone. Nice to be able to try it out for a week. Luckily for me, my roommates have since returned to the city and now the space is filled with life again.

Last Saturday evening we hosted our housewarming party, which I think has solidly made this place feel like home, inhabited, populated. We handmade streamers out of origami paper, googled and executed 'snacks to make for a party' and I watched GD and AV make dozens of jello shots¹. The three of us invited just about every person we know in this city, all from different corners of our lives meeting under one roof - colleagues turned friends, former classmates, beloved connections from undergrad, childhood friends, all doing the dance of mingling.

During the party itself, I recall a moment, standing near the entrance way of my stairless home, peeking into the lightly glowing living room and looking at our visitors, laughing and loud and cozy on a rainy night. For a moment alone, I remembered myself at seven, feeling the hum of the people again. Outside-looking-in, simultaneously building and observing a life.

from Marcel the Shell with Shoes On (2021)

For one of the first times in my life, I did not get the emotional hangover that so often comes with the after-party. The hum of the people is perpetual in this home and so now I am safe to rest.

The party itself went very well and we have vowed to host more. I'm of the opinion that there is always something happening that is worth celebrating so I suppose it's time to get really in to curating my are.na channel for future and frequent party concepts.

I am hoping that your January is filled with people to dance with and with people to call.

yours,
sam