Zebras have no idea, nor do the rats under our shed; the kale, bravely growing on through the sodden winter, doesn’t seem to know or care. The stars do not blink in morse this week, warning us of impending doom; the bees are not making more honey than expected in Australia—or if they are, no one’s put it up on Facebook yet. But what do the Maya say? Are they stocking up, hunkering down, preparing to stay up all night to welcome the end, as it once was done? The ancient Maya thought it would come every 52 years. They also believed the earth was flat, and that every village was above an underworld, a whole complicated kingdom below ground. Now the modern Maya are not concerned; once cycle is ending, and another beginning, and they will not, as the ancients did, sacrifice animals at the return of dawn to thank the gods for sparing the world again. In fact, some are calling for it to be a wake-up call for humans, to save our earth from environmental destruction. No, the real question is this: of the two percent of Americans who believe it will end, will any of them do something crazy? What will they kill if they’re still alive to do it? No one wants to be laughed at. Who’s gonna get the last word? My sister is keeping her kids at home from school on the big day because of this, just in case, even though she’s in Canada. My daughter’s going, but only because it’s pajama day and she organized it. (And who wouldn’t want to spend the day in a red sock-monkey onesie?) I’m going to spend the morning with friends, in candlelight, writing. Because it is the darkest day, and because it is the beginning of the end of dark days. Our offering of wax and words will be given, to bring just a little more light.