Fifty Sunrises
This morning I awoke 50 years old. I saw diamonds in the snow, and a robin alit on my balcony. A wave of gratitude washed over me before I could lament my age, and the beauty of another ordinary day quelled the fear nipping at my ankles. Clouds passed by. Weak winter sun fell on familiar objects I hold very dear, giving them a fresh glow. My deceased father smiled from a frame as if to say, “You got this, kid. Make me proud.” I have sucked the marrow from each of my 50 years, leaving dry husks of memory in my wake. I have laughed and loved and left marks on my skin. I have taken in the stories of countless strangers, making friends along the way. I have shared stories of love and loss and suffering and redemption. I have wrestled with words until their skinny black shapes united in some kind of meaningful pattern that speaks a bit of truth. I have loved with every cell in my imperfect body. I have given myself with mindless passion and accepted the crumbs of a...