Another year flows softly by, like honey running silkily from greedy mouths, and hips and thighs. It is quiet in the garden of her soul, and sunlit gratitude bathes her world in shades of gold and pink.
In this space between wake and sleep, she is queen, and she breathes it in, savouring every moment of this fragile life.
Another trip around the sun, and she wants no lavish presents. Her favourite gift is your time, your attention, and the way you smile for her alone. She has long outgrown the need for things, for she cannot take them with her to the shadows. She prefers kindness these days, laughter, and precious moments with those she loves.
She has lost people along the journey. Through the dark doors of death, she has grasped, fingers outstretched to hold tightly to souls stolen too soon. Hot tears burn her pillow, and some scars can never heal. She does not need them to, for they remind her of a love strong enough to bridge two worlds, more precious for the fierceness of their pain.
Others she releases willingly into the waiting sky; bright balloons full of past selves and memories, drifting freely into the clouds. She smiles when she sees them, a fondness in her heart, ghosts weaving through mist. The men who loved her, the enemies that didn’t. Old laughter and past hurts. Childhood faces, outgrown, but not unloved. She will no longer settle for less than the silver glitter of starlight that fills her soul to bursting. She is loved. She is worthy. She is enough.
Her body is sacred, at last. It has taken three decades to become an old friend. She rejoices in the secrets of its curves, thankful for its treasure map of freckles, sparkling like jewels under a waiting sun. It has served her well, with strength becoming more important than size. Every movement is a blessing, letting her run, and dance, and play. She is comfortable in her skin, and it shows.
She knows her heart’s desires, her passion. She has found her work’s meaning, with words falling from supple fingers like cherry blossoms, drifting gently in the wind for waiting eyes to devour. She has comforted, connected, and confounded, and all three bring her more pleasure than she could have ever imagined.
No longer will she sigh upon the passing of the years, nor recoil in horror when silver comes to caress her waiting head. She will wear it as a badge of honour, that she has survived this life and all its hardships. Every day is borrowed, and every sunrise a treasure to be cherished.
Originall Published on Elephant Journal here.
