I started 22 with a hole in my sock, sans bra. The cat growled at me. My Ma told me exactly how old I was (to the minute) when I woke up. My sister wouldn’t sing Happy Birthday, and then apologised for it later.
I drove to work listening to “Dancing Queen” and spilt coffee down my shirt. I wore braids which made me feel light, but couldn’t shake the sadness I was feeling from the Yoko Ono documentary I watched the night before.
I put my elbow in my second cup of coffee for the day. I was told I looked worried, which isn’t new, but this time I felt it. A child told me he wanted a man to get his marshmallows for him. I gave him his pink pillow of sugar and gelatin without smiling. I accidentally poured hot water on a pot plant and was harnessed by guilt because I thought I had killed something on the day I was given life. I tried not to think about the people I hadn’t heard from, or the people I had but didn’t have the words to reply to.
I cried in the shower and thought tea-tree oil was going to fix it.
I ate burritos and drank wine with two or three, watched “The Brady Bunch” to feel pure, and negotiated light with a film camera and a lime candle.
I was gifted with sensory deprivation which is the Holy Grail for someone who thinks they feel it all and need a quick break.
I am trying to not associate all birthdays with the one that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
I am thankful to have the opportunity to grow older. I am reminded of phrases like “circulation around the sun” and “new orbit” and “flight around the golden orb”, and smile.
Thank you for the well wishes. The most impacting one was for “a restful night sleep”. I took my braids out and had just that.