Have you ever felt something… strange about a small piece of paper? Not nostalgia exactly. Not joy. Just… something. Confetti has always been part of my New Year's. Not in a grand way, just there, quietly. On the tablecloth. Caught in someone's hair. Pressed into the corner of a room for weeks after, as if refusing to leave.

I never really thought about it. It was just… part of the night. But then I did think about it. About what it actually is, just paper. Tiny, weightless, almost nothing. And still, the moment it falls, something happens. The air changes. People laugh. Someone grabs your arm without even realizing it. Maybe that's the thing about confetti. It doesn't ask you to feel anything. It just falls, and somehow, you do.

Every New Year's table I remember had it. Between the glasses, near the candles, scattered like something the night left behind. And outside, above all of it, a sky full of stars, quietly watching the year come to an end. And the people around that table, my family, the ones I love, they were always at their most themselves in that moment. Dressed up. Hopeful. Leaning toward each other.

Confetti doesn't celebrate alone. It only makes sense with others. And I think that's why it stays with me. Not for what it looks like, but for what it always seems to find. That exact moment when the year hasn't started yet, and everything still feels possible, and the people you love are right there, close, real. Such a small thing. Such a full feeling.

Maybe celebration is like that too, not in the fireworks, not in the countdown… but in a tiny piece of paper, landing softly on someone's hand. Under a sky that has seen every one of your New Year's, and kept them all.

Anna & Jam Foam