Getting Ready to Turn 53

They stopped me all week,

asked me how I would celebrate another year.

I breathe into the idea of 53.



I always like my birthday, at the end of February,

not a leap year, and far enough away from Christmas

not to ruin that holiday, close enough to spring

to have something to look forward to as mud season

takes over.



As a child, the winter thaw cancelled skating parties,

even in Minnesota. There was no smooth gliding

over frozen surfaces of water.

Never the end of winter, but warm enough

to survive until the flowers arrived and the early green flowed

into the leaves. Birthday bowling or sleep overs with the girls.

Pink frosting on Angel Food. Candles and the story of my birth

before singing the song.



This year will be the most different I’ve ever been

with my father gone from his body and traveling free

with the crows and the dreams of all the ways

he has shown up for me. This year will be different

without the call from my champion before 8 a.m. to sing the song

and to tell me about soaking the cast off his arm

after driving on bumpy roads through the jungle

to hurry my arrival. The VW with the wicker basket

behind the seat for the baby. The trip to the nursery

looking for the white baby among the sea of brown

only to find me protected by the nurses.



This year will be different

with my heart space left

unprotected and open

to everything.