In a handful of days, my oldest daughter will be twenty-one. Wow, that’s a birthday.
When she turned six and I marveled over that, another mother told me all birthdays are big. Six was big, and so was seven, and so on. But 21? That’s an age when her heart’s been broken, more than once, an age when she’s fully left adolescence and crossed over into the realm of adulthood.
The year she turned six, her best girlfriend from down the road walked over wearing a tutu. Snow was falling.
When she turned seven, my friend had made her a piñata with purple and silver sparkles. When the pretty thing broke apart, her baby sister cried.
Twenty-one: now I keep up with the Impeachment hearings to hold up my end of our conversation. Twenty-one: so glad to have you here.
No matter who lives, who dies, the seasons never rest.
Creatures take their turns, and the year turns and turns.
David Budbill, Judevine