If there was ever a year I am sad to see go, it’s this one. Where do I even begin to wax nostalgic for the amazing things that happened this year?

In May, I went to Paris for eight weeks, to soak up the city, speak the language, fill two 16GB memory cards of photos, and work on my novel. I lived in Montmartre, in a charming apartment with a balcony, the view from which was the iconic red windmill of the Moulin Rouge. I ate croissants and demi-baguettes with beurre every day, spent more money on flowers and macarons than anyone should, and wrote more in those 61 days than I knew I was capable of.

To say that coming home was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do is an understatement. I almost didn’t.

But I had a wedding to come back for.

In September, we were married on a rainy, perfect Saturday. That day feels like a million years ago, when it was really just a few short months. I haven’t even gotten my dress dry-cleaned, and we haven’t sent out all of our thank you cards (if you’re still waiting on one, I’m so sorry!). I was staunchly an anti-bride leading up to the wedding, but I wouldn’t have changed a thing about the actual day once we got there. I’d do it all again (to the same guy, of course!) just to have all our favorite people in one room.

After the wedding it was off to Greece, where we spent a few days in Athens and a week in Santorini.

I’d spent too much time in Paris (a sentence I never thought I’d say) to remember that there are other, friendlier Europeans on the continent. The Greeks are warm and inviting and our experience there made us feel so welcomed, rather than the indifference from most Parisians. We were often given free dessert once waiters realized we were on our honeymoon, a treat that goes a long way to winning me over.

This fall I also began selling prints of my Paris photos, an endeavor that has been rewarding and fulfilling beyond my wildest imagination.

There were trips to the museum, weekly French classes (I’m in level 301 now), and through it all, I’ve been writing. Oh, and there were also plenty of cuddles with Fitz.

I don’t know what 2015 has in store, but it has a lot to live up to. I do have some surprises to share with you guys, including a very exciting trip next spring. Thank you for following along for another year. Have a wonderful (and safe!) New Year’s, kiddos!

I.

I bought a men’s sweater at Uniqlo over the weekend, an unfussy, slightly shapeless black wool button down number. I’ve been searching for one for a while now, for a go-to, grandpa sweater I could wear daily and actually keep warm in, as opposed to the sparkly, open-weave, ‘fashion sweaters’ women’s stores seem to be pushing these days. My favorite sweater is one of my dad’s, a dark green pull-over that somehow still retains the warm, musky smell of him. I try not to wear it too often, because I don’t want the smell to disappear, to wear off. It’s a comforting olfactory thing.

Today would have been his 76th birthday.

There are things you lose after eight years –the specific hum of his voice, the way he’d mindlessly stroke his mustache with his thumb and middle finger– and things you give up voluntarily; I can’t listen to more than the opening chords of Charlie Haden’s “American Dreams” without dissolving into tears, like some instantaneous chemical reaction. But there are things I’m fighting to keep, too, like the smell of his sweater, his love of Paris, and the solace of knowing that I am half of him.

II.

The year I was eight, he was 56, and that number popped up everywhere for us. On street signs, on register receipts, and, once, as the name of a production company on the opening credits of a Riverdance VHS tape I had specifically asked for at Christmas (let’s not talk about that). We were laying on the sofa together, the VCR remote in his hand, and “A 56th Street Production” appeared on the screen, on top of a swirl of coral and blue tones.

“Oh look,” he said. “There’s my number again.”

That was 20 years ago, and it feels as vivid as if it were just two.

III.

I’m wearing a black turtleneck, my new black sweater, and my dad’s watch, today, and having lunch with my brother. And I’m debating booking an impromptu trip to Paris in February, because I know my dad would have encouraged it.

Happy, happy birthday, daddy.