Forty

A poem on one’s birthday

Who could have thought that I would ever turn forty?

Just a few days ago I was a little girl with piggy tails who hid under the covers so the monsters could not find her.

But monsters have a mighty sense of smell.

They can sniff fear and doubt, and will prey on those who can’t run away oh, so far away from them.

I thought I was going to lose my marbles, and my hair, and my limbs, and my soul, and my everything.

The monsters said I was sweet and yummy; just a tasty snack to pass the time and fight off their boredom.

I wasn’t supposed to be anyone or do anything or make it anywhere.

But I’m still here, and now I’m forty, and I’m this person, this woman, who didn’t fade away even though all she wanted was to drown under the shadows.

I don’t know how many days lay ahead of me, but the ones I just left behind have shaped me so I have no choice but to persist in my journey toward wonder and delight, even if a few stubborn monsters foolishly believe they get to drag me down.