Second Prize: THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR     by Susan Browne On the last day of the year, I throw 2005 in the trash. The calendar is crumpled from falling off the wall; by December, eleven pages of months have been hanging around long after their moment in the sun, all bunched up and shivering behind Ansel Adams’ photograph of Yosemite Valley buried under pounds of snow. The little squares of days are now at rest, no more doctor’s and dentist’s appointments, no more root canals, cancer scares, English Department meetings, the year collapsed in on itself, 365 black holes added to the cosmos of newspapers, yogurt containers, and wine bottles. Staring at the empty space on the wall, I’m soothed by utter blankness. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to look back upon. No yearning, no remembering. As if God pushed the Pause button. A shiver shoots down my spine, and I think about getting a new calendar as soon as possible, on January 2nd when the stores open, and the machine of the world cranks up again. The world of things to do, places to go, people to meet, little squares of days in the sun, a table, blue flowers in a vase, a menu, a glass, a plate.