As promised, the musings on life that accompany a birthday. Enjoy.
When the morning was still a little cool to the touch and filled with the mists of springtime dews, I turned the page of my life’s book to the the eighteenth year. My sister made me breakfast-- I can still taste the strawberries and cream on my lips if I let myself drift off from reality. Downstairs there were pastel streamers and a giant Hershey’s kiss, and I couldn’t help but wonder who all the splendor was for. Why did people keep wishing me a happy birthday?
When I was small, I used to see the faeries in the garden if I squinted enough. Dainty translucent wings fluttering from the roses to the grass that tempted me with their vision. I was a strange little girl with heavy golden-brown plaits and serious, dark eyes. I read books almost too large to hold in my hands, but just the right size for my curious mind. I craved the tales of ancient lore and stories of today like I wanted nothing else. They used to tell me I would ruin my eyes, and I wear thick glasses today. They used to tell me to go out in the sunshine and play ball, but I knew where the real treasures were. Somehow, I’ve always known.
I grew up in a scattering of small houses on the West Coast. The oldest of four, I was a perfect blending of my mother and father. Too different and too similar to ever get along with either all the time. My father had sensitive lips and artistic hands, and my mother had my softly curling hair around her face. They tell me that I walked and talked early, and my father’s name was the first word that ever escaped my baby lips. Brothers and sister came, but I kept my eyes focused steadily on the horizon where tomorrow waited. Even then, that was my strength and weakness.
I grew, fed on a steady diet of dreams. My dreams and those they wrote down in books. They were my friends. I knew the petty rules of the schoolyard, and how quickly your favor could vanish with the advent of recess. I learned when to open my shell, and when to slam the gates down. I learned to love beauty and to know truth. I began to wonder about the miracle of love.
So the years passed, and faces wander by me as I sit and type. Some unimportant, some that shaped me. The music changes on my player as times creep by shyly, asking me if there’s anything I want to remember.
I never liked to think about the past. I used to squeeze my eyes shut when a painful memory came to me. Tomorrow held the siren call. I wanted to know what lay around the bend in the road and over the gently sloping hills. It led me here, and I wonder about it. But not too much. I trust in some greater power that leads me in the plunging river I travel. There may be waterfalls and knives disguised as rocks, but I will reach the mouth of it safely. Where my river divides from the rest, I do not know. All I know is what I am.
People tell me that I’m smart and sweet, and I always respond the same way. A quick thanks and a shy smile. Our eyes never meet-- I know the secrets of my heart lie in those pools of darkness, so I hardly ever raise them to meet their fellows. Fear holds me back. Fear of fear, fear of nothing but the coldness of failure. In the same way, it pushes me forward until the fear dissolves.
Let the light come, and bring the shadows with it. Bring me into Tomorrow and let the heart of a poet stand revealed to the world.
