Thirty Two

So I'm finally thirty two. I say finally because I've been thinking I was thirty two for the past year and a half. I'm not sure why, it's just how old I already have been in my head. Maybe it's because I like even numbers. Maybe it's because it's always seemed like a respectble age. Not too old, not too young. Not a turning point age, not a a real shocker. It's an age I'm cool with. For now, anway.

Birthdays come and go, and this is the third one I've spent without my mom. It feels so wrong to do it without her. She made me. From scratch. She suffered through the labor, she cradled my head in her hands. It was always my day to reflect upon that.

I really missed her phone call, her birthday song sang just for me, my kitten birthday card, my name in her handwriting. I know I talk a lot about this, I have to, it's as much a part of the threads of me as my hair or my skin. I seep with my loss. I reverberate my pain.

Sixteen years ago I was sixteen. All I wanted in life was for Greg to realize he loved me, and then to have ten thousand babies with him. I guess I also wanted new L.A. Gears and a car, but overall I would have settled for Greg and the ten thousand babies. Turns out, Greg wasn't quite the same person I had imagined him to be. Turns out, too, that ten thosand babies might have been a bit too much for me to handle.

Eight years ago I was 24. Happily living the twenty-something dream. New girlfriend, new state, new life. No more pickle stains on these hands, no more Pinconning sheep-farmer stories to live down.

Four years ago I oozed with pain, dripped with fear, and simmered in regret. Regrets I couldn't identify yet, but I sensed were lurking just around the bend.

Two years ago I tried to open my eyes. And it hurt.

One year ago I noticed that I hear my mom when I sing aloud. I see her hands when I do the dishes. I feel her with me when I wrap up in my afghan.

This year I want to figure out how to hold on to everything that make me smile and somehow still move forward in life.