At the end of one year and the beginning of another, many of us pause and take stock of our lives. New resolutions are made, promises are quietly given, and while some years pass without much change, others leave a lasting mark. Beyond our plans and intentions, life continues to unfold in ways we cannot control. Some New Years arrive with hope, others with loss, and sometimes, with the knowledge that not everyone we love will be able to enter them with us.

The first... the first year someone starts working, the first year someone becomes a parent. The first year in a new apartment, the first in a new relationship, the first with a dog, the first time someone sets boundaries for themselves and others. The first year when someone will travel to a wonderful place, the first year when a big dream comes true. The first year after a loss.

2026 is the first year for everyone for some reason.

This is the first year I don't have grandparents. I remember when I first realized they were gone. When I said out loud that I no longer had any grandparents. Then someone rephrased it a little and wrote that I was no longer a grandchild. Somehow, this wording hit me hard, because it meant that a role I had lived for more than 30 years had come to an end. But of course, this isn't about me; I can't take this writing away from them because it's about them.

To my grandparents, who were always there for me like a shield. To those with whom I argued at most about politics or why I hadn't gotten married yet. To those who always had Sunday lunch on the schedule, where you could count the grease spots in the soup, where no one went hungry. Where you could compromise, but you still had to talk about how your day was, how your life was. Where I learned that you could use harvested corn to "build," where it was cool to play cards, and where you could sometimes chant poems or rhymes. Later, I was able to teach them German, although it wasn't easy. Those with whom the family gathered, with whom you could celebrate or even butcher a pig, although I didn't like the last one at all, it's still a memory. At their place. With them. Then there are those from whom I could ask about my ancestors, where we came from, and because of whom I myself can belong somewhere. Those who used to grow grapes, apricots, strawberries, raspberries, figs, cucumbers, kohlrabi, garlic, and so many other treasures. Then, slowly but surely, answers came about what life was like for them. And if there is anything I regret, it is that I did not ask them more often and did not write down their stories.

My grandmother passed away at the end of 2021, leaving behind a void that no one will ever be able to fill, but she also gave us so many wonderful memories, like when they came to visit and we went to see the city, or when I stopped by McDonald's for a hamburger before their train trip because they loved them, but in her own words, she also gave me permission to go to Australia "among the crocodiles." I remember how it felt to eat her cooking for the last time... She passed away almost a month before Christmas, but by then she had already made stuffed cabbage, which was in the freezer. I don't remember when she made it, maybe long before or a week before... but what is certain is that everyone paused for a moment; there was something intangible in that silence—when someone is no longer among the living, yet they are still completely there. And somehow, in that silence, everyone clung to those bites of food in an immeasurable way.

Then I lost my grandfather at the end of 2025. We always walked through the garden, and he offered me fruit and vegetables from the garden. One of my fondest memories is when we picked peaches from the peach tree with a rake because there were only a few left high up, and one of the peaches fell on my boyfriend's head. He laughed so heartily, I don't think I've heard him laugh like that since my grandmother died. Then, after his death, I stood in the kitchen and peeled the garlic he had given me—according to my boyfriend, the best garlic he had ever tasted, both in terms of smell and taste. They were a little small, but they beat any store-bought garlic hands down. Then I stood there in the kitchen, and tears fell from my eyes because I knew that these were the last ones he had cared for, grown, and given to me.

They had a beautiful, long life, so how fortunate it is that someone could be a grandchild for that long, that those who go to elementary school performances and keep the ribbons (which were part of the show) for decades can see that person grow up. 2026 is the first year where I can only take my memories with me. 2026 is the first year where I have to find a new role for myself, where I can still feel safe and remember them fondly.

Because around December and January, there are many signs that someone is still "with us." Letters, little notes, Christmas decorations, gifts, and New Year's champagne on graves—as long as a person is not forgotten, they are still alive. And the new year can sometimes bring great joy or great sorrow; it may be necessary to build a new life or mend a broken heart, but it may also be that it brings nothing significant, but whatever happened in 2025 or whatever happens in 2026, whether we like it or not, every year will be the first for something.