The day is almost over.
Thirty-one
has been mine
for only a few hours,
and already
the candles have shortened
into wax.
The children
will sleep.
The house
will settle.
Someone will leave
a cup somewhere
they absolutely shouldn’t.
A cat will curl
against my legs
like she pays rent.
And eventually,
there will only be me.
Me
and the quiet.
Once,
quiet terrified me.
It left too much room
for memory.
Now,
I think I have earned it.
So tonight,
before this first day
of thirty-one ends,
I want to say
something
to every year
that tried
to swallow me.
To five.
To fifteen.
To twenty-one.
To twenty-seven.
To thirty.
Look at me.
You did not win.
You changed me.
You marked me.
You left scars
I still touch
when the weather turns.
But you did not
get to keep me.
I am still here.
Still writing.
Still mothering.
Still laughing
too loudly.
Still loving
when I swore
I would never
give anyone
that kind of weapon again.
Still taking photographs.
Still reading
past midnight.
Still standing
outside with a cigarette
beneath an October sky,
thinking about everything
I survived.
Thirty-one years.
Not all of them kind.
But all of them mine.
And if there is
one birthday wish
I trust enough
to make,
it is this:
let me keep becoming
a woman
my younger selves
would recognize
as freedom.
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