Happy Birthday To Me
So, I’m 32. Am I halfway through? Am I enough? Am I meant to last? In the hearts of who? Am I loved by you? Should I still feel young? Go ahead, show me your tongue!
I think I would laugh. So, I’m meant to last. For sure, if I can still smile, I’m still young at heart. And that is an art.
If I play each day, for hours I play, that must mean I’m still young, my ship has not been sunk.
If I take a deep breath, and my nostrils fill with a toddler’s scent, that is quite a present. And I live in the moment.
If I look at the sun and laugh, if I dance and pretend to be whatever I want, if I sit on the ground, if I color books and kiss chubby cheeks, if I build lego castles, then I feel no hassles.
I’ll admit, I feel tired, even just a bit. What the heck, I confess, I feel aches in places I’ve never addressed. But when I go to rest, I know it’s the best life on which I could cast my net.
Now one thing I know is that 32 is just to show when I’m asked for ID. Because, baby, on any other day, if you’d ask me my age, I’d look straight through you and tell: I dunno.