twenty-three

I turned twenty–three today
and for the first time in a very long time
I woke up grateful.

Grateful to be here.
Grateful to exist in this beautifully mangled world.
Grateful I gave myself permission to age.

This morning, I stood in front of the mirror
like it was a doorway.
Looked for a wrinkle.
Looked for proof.
Looked for some small signal
that my body is conspiring
to turn me into the person
I’ve always wanted to become.

I searched my face
for a future.

Then I searched my past.

Baby photos
one from each birthday
cake smeared across my cheeks,
eyes wide with a wonder
I do not always remember how to carry.

I wondered
If that little girl
would have believed
she would make it to twenty–three.

I think about my mother
how her eldest is finally becoming
the one thing she despises:
a woman with her own hands on her own body.
The older I get
the less control she has over me,
and the more I look like myself.

I think about my father
How his baby girl is no longer a baby
but mirror.
His eyes.
His nose.
His thick ass hair.
His smile that knows how to charm a room
and his way of not fully blooming
because it feels safer
to stay folded.
His habit of avoiding conflict
because sometimes
letting things be
is easier than letting yourself grow.

I wonder
which parts of him
I am willing to keep.
Which parts
I will lovingly unlearn.

I think about the eight–dollar coffee
I will buy myself this morning,
the fifty dollars I might spend on CDs,
The films I plan to devour tonight.
How capitalism has convinced me
That spending is a ceremony.
That joy must be purchased
to be legitimate.
That happiness comes with a receipt.

But maybe joy is the way
the steam rises from the cup.
Maybe it is the way
music fills a room,
whether or not I own it.

I think about my friends,
how far we have stretched together.
The fights we survived.
The secrets we buried.
The laughter that has saved my life more than once.
I wonder if these are the hands
I will still be holding
ten years from now.

I think about my lover
How I woke beside her this morning.
How she was the first to hold me,
to press her palm against my cheek
like she was checking
for a pulse of light.
How for a moment
The world quieted
just because we decided
to breathe at the same time.

I think about the tree outside my window.
This is the second birthday
We have shared.
We have watched each other
shed and return.
We have both learned
That blooming is seasonal
and still sacred.

I think about the little girls
who hate their birthdays.
Who hates cakes and candles
and rooms full of eyes.
Who fear they cannot perform gratitude correctly.
Who feel the world is unkind
every other day of the year
and do not trust it
to be gentle now.

I think about the ice on the road
and how it dares
to threaten my steps.
How even on a day like this
The world reminds me
That balance is work.

I think about my hair
refusing to cooperate
How I might just say fuck it
and put on a hat.
How sometimes freedom
is choosing not to wrestle
with what will not bend.

I think about my birthday twins,
all the strangers born today,
living wildly different lives.
Who is celebrating loudly?
Who is mourning quietly?
Who is also staring in a mirror
asking,
How did I get here?

I think about Nina Simone
rest her soul
to share a birthday with the greatest.
I play her voice aloud,
snap my fingers in rhythm,
pretend she is somewhere
nodding at me like,
yes, baby,
keep going.

And at last
I think about myself.

About who I want to become.
About who I already am.
About the distance between the two
shrinking.

I think about the little girl inside of me
who still hates her birthday,
who still braces herself
for disappointment,
who still feels the weight
of being seen.

Today
I sit beside her.

I tell her
we made it.
We are allowed to age.
We are allowed to take up space.
We are allowed to celebrate
without apology.

Twenty–three is not a finish line.
It is a permission slip.

To bloom.
To unlearn.
To spend or save.
To love loudly.
To choose softness.
To step carefully over ice.
To look in the mirror
and not search for proof
but recognize it.