I've deleted this paragraph four times, let's make it five. Remember when birthdays were fun, happy times? It's a loaded question, how many years I've graced this planet. I've contributed what I can, I'm older than I was then. There are many life lessons to learn, one is how to use the written word. I'll come back to this, I promise, after another decade of remorse, sorrow, discarded drafts and too much bourbon.

I was in my twenties once, living day to day, hoping to survive the decade without succumbing to pain. I hit thirty and realized I'm a third of the way through, if I am lucky. Perhaps it's all happenstance, a roulette of genetics. I take another sip of my drink and watch the condensation drip down the glass, another year in the bag, handed to me with a lemon slice on the edge.

We are all surviving, even if at different tempos. Each year is its own performance, percussion that continues. If the beat goes on, but no one is around to hear it, can you still call it music?

Are you listening to it?

Lacey listens.

The angel plays für Elise

cries away the night

lying somehow to please

laughs away the night

loving under the moon

sings away the night

longing for a happier tune.

A child is born, named her Elise

laughing, she listens to her song

and sings along-- la la la la la la la la la

grows up fast, pierces her nose

moves to California, tats her calf

listens to the Arctic Monkeys

has a gazing ball in her yard.

Today is her birthday.

Alone in her chair, lonely Lacey listens

The angel plays für Elise

cries away the night

I don't remember very many birthdays before the age of, well, a few years ago. But there is one birthday that I remember that completely changed the way that I looked at my life. Its seemingly unimportant and I may be reaching for some sort of underlying message that doesn't even exist but here it goes:

I can't even recall how old I was turning or which birthday this was, but it was when my parents were still together. The morning was filled with chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, calls from family members who sang to me on the phone, and I remember getting a limited edition American Girl Doll that looked just like me. She was brand new with light brown hair, and a few freckles- we even added earrings to her ears once I got mine pierced. I felt like we looked so much alike and we shared these traits that made me feel like I was so lucky to have such a great birthday. But once the day ended and the charade that was my birthday depleted, for another 365 days I played with this special doll.

As more and more birthdays went on I started to notice a snag in her clothing, small knots in her hair, and the coloring of her eyes starting to fade. It made me feel like my youth was slowly diminishing just like the freshness of this doll was. Since then, no birthday has felt quite as special, and I can't remember the last time that I truly felt like a carefree kid. Like someone who would wake up with no worries in her mind except whether or not Mom and Dad would make chocolate chip pancakes again or sing me happy birthday together again.

So to me, now birthdays sort of remind me of my American Girl Doll Molly. How we sold her at a garage sale to make more money for my college fund (which I apparently have to save real money for and work an adult job for), and how my childhood innocence seemingly left with her. And with age and birthdays coming and going, I'm constantly wishing I was just a carefree kid again and I didn't have to think about all of the complex things that life continues to throw at me. But I've learned that this life is unforgiving to time, and no matter how nostalgic we may feel towards a special edition doll or a morning full of sugary breakfast food, nothing will ever feel that carefree again.

I escaped death, by drowning, through the keyhole in the water.

The day prior, I had randomly picked up a small thin book and flipped open to a page.

Number 14, I remember vividly. It gave a tip. "How to Save Yourself from Drowning," a diagram with the illustration of an old skeleton key and a doorway, like to Heaven.

I had never learnt to swim. Certainly not in peer pressure...

Tomorrow my best friend was turning 10. Her father had given her a letter N stuffie, for Nicole, and a birthday party at the lake. A green murky bottomless basin.

Too yucky for you? Pale skin blushing in the sun.

"Can your feet touch the ground?!"

Yes, yes, they can. Jump in, the water is fine!

"Jump in. Jump in. Jump in. Jump in..."

And in, there, too green.

Not coward, nor prudent

Not being able to swim..!

Not wanting to jump out of Life.

No one believing, in not floating up;

Eyes open, one foot under and sinking,

Time stops but the heart is still ticking,

I've no instinct except to Think: I am Going to Die.

My ears are deafening with liquid, and lungs are screaming.

I remember the keyhole and draw its potent shape in the water.

Propelled immediately like by magic string, gasping, to the surface, breathing!

It must have been way down dark to cause such a panic on their helpless small faces.

Five of us in the water and no one to save us. Children God bless the handle on the floaty.

They haul me to the rocky edge, where Mr. Falanga is in horror holding out a hairy hand.

Hoisted to a towel. Puking water on dry land.

This is how I escaped, death, by drowning.

Through the keyhole in the water.

06.28.2023

Birthdays & Getting Older challenge @Melpomene

Twins born eight minutes apart, on either side of midnight, December 31. There is no global unanimity on whether midnight is the last second of one day or the first second of another, but falling sometime during the eight minutes of two live births meant that these boys had not only two different birthdays but two different birth years.

Astrologers would lose their minds over this because blood is stronger than the gravitational waves from the cosmos.

In 15 or 16 years, the DMV would smile on one but decry the other. In 18 years, the Draft Board would adjudicate one but reprieve the other. School boards would need to decide whether to penalize one or socially promote the other. Age groups would splinter in indecision. Religion would say one had reached the Age of Reason while the other was still protected by Limbo.

One child would follow the other in respect of their birth order in most things. Two different birth years meant that the birth order wasn't first and second, but first and last.

Could it be said that one child could see eight minutes into his future simply by looking at his brother? No. Not if they were holding hands. Not if they remained together. Not if they remained one, like the common womb that carried them; like the common mother who birthed them. Like the single egg that chose both sides of the fork in the road.

But even forked roads can lead to the same place, eventually. They just need to avoid the roadblocks.

The fluorescent bulbs above Nick’s bathroom sink washed over the contours of his face as he studied his reflection in the mirror. He started into his own eyes for a few moments as is he was trying to place a familiar face in his memory. Deeper and deeper he searched for full recognition of the visage staring back at him. The third bulb from the left flickered and went out. Slowly, the face in the mirror aged, becoming wrinkled and weathered. The eyes dulled, eyebrows creasing and collapsing upon them. His cheeks sagged, drawing the rest of his face downward into a fixed scowl. Eventually, Nick was peering into the eyes of a much older version of himself.

Facing this elder specter, Nick’s mind exploded with fears and doubts. His mind became mayhem. Questions were flung in all directions within him like shrapnel on a battlefield. What would his future-self think of him currently? Would he like what he saw in the mirror fifty years from now? Was he ready to watch himself age one day at a time until he ran out of days?

The dark bulb came back to life and Nick’s reflection returned to normal. He turned the lights off and left the bathroom. Two questions continued to haunt his mind. Why must the past keep getting longer? Why couldn’t the future give the present any time?

I was running, feet slapping on hot pavement.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere,

where addicts go to die in peace.

There was a trifle of complacency,

the public rife with the foulest of all its kind.

The tri-state area, the place of pealing skin and melting minds.

I ran, ran long till the pavement went cold,

till the nineteenth hour of circular wheels hit snowed roads.

And suddenly, I wasn't hurdling myself into the future,

counting birthdays like a prisoner counts days in confinement.

Thirteen candles unlucky.

Sixteen candles, two too late.

Nearly nineteen, my fear long turned hate.

And then gone.

Gone like the wish blown out, so long ago.

Genies were wished on like

candles blown breath upon.

A decade shot on by,

birthdays no longer counted like wishes on stars for sweet good byes.

Nearly thirty, forgetting what birthdays felt like.

Like confessions in a booth, of dark wishes dreamed upon.

Gods, birthdays aren't what I wish upon.

Days. Days are what I wish upon. Dream up on.

Fucking birthdays were my count down.

The count to my death or rebirth,

the time to my final hour or eternal escape.

Happy birthday, motherfucker.

I guess I lived for eternity, like I never thought.

Happy birthday to whomever has a birthday today or one

yet to come later on in the year.

Always be grateful to see another day - some people went to sleep last night but never woke up this day. A year older we grow, as birthday after birthday comes and goes. One season will change into another, and the youthful vibrant hairs over time may turn to grey,

but as my birthday approaches,

I hope to celebrate life and being born, sent to my family and friends. I'll spend time

with them all as we prepare to pray as thanks for life, and I set out on a mission to somehow perfectly cut the cake. All the while basking in their company while we stuff our faces with peanut ice-cream, red velvet cake, and a room filled to the brim with laughter, conversation and joyous cheer.

Another year celebrating the passing, looking into the mirror I instantly visualize myself as the years. I know myself but I cannot help but feel as if i’m a stranger, I allow my feelings to live in their own personal existence but my existence doesn’t feel worthy enough to live in celebration. Life is beautiful even while polarizing. I can admire myself raw; my authentic self, looking in the mirror self becomes selfishness. Thoughts become thrown out as they are just pouring into myself . I cannot help to visualize the years, ever so more be overwhelmed by everything moment and thought , good and bad that are being celebrated today. Happy Birthday, I say to all that I am.

Last year I was chastised rather acutely by a friend for not sharing that it was my birthday. Her reasoning was devastating and mind-altering. Years prior to our meeting, she had lost her husband far too young to an aggressive cancer. She said to me, “You never know how many opportunities you will have to celebrate the people around you. Give those who love you the opportunity to show you how much they do.”

I just crossed into another year. 35. To be honest, I struggled with this one. To decisively reach MID-thirties still single was not something I had expected or desired. That said, I recalled my friend’s words from the previous year and decided that I was going to refuse to wallow. So, in opposition to my lamentation, I set up an entire birthday weekend extravaganza for myself.

I invited everyone I knew to come out and while nature conspired against me with some very intense thunderstorms, I still managed to have one of the most spectacular birthday weekends I’ve ever experienced. Learning to accept the love of those around me has been a long time coming, but allowing myself to be celebrated was such a beautiful and humbling experience.

It is true: we don’t know how many opportunities we will have to celebrate and be celebrated by those with whom we share our lives. The only certain thing about life is that it will eventually end. But while we are alive, live like every moment is the most important. Surround yourself with friends, laugh until your sides ache, and cry as hard as the hard times dictate. Life is a beautiful mess and it’s worth celebrating.