Last night I woke every hour on the hour, troubled by tummy terrors and dreams of my sisters frustrating me in the classic ways that they relentlessly do in my dreams. I rolled out of bed and the sunlight was cheerily streaming through the windows, anyhow. There’s a squirrel out there hungry for my tomatoes and I hear a woodpecker tok-tok-toking high in the branches of our neighbor’s pine. Another year around the sun, today. I guess I would have preferred a rainy morning but I’ll take what I can get and be glad of it.
Today I am eight years older than my mother was, when I realized she had been 36 for a suspect amount of time. Even though it’s really no one’s business, I don’t see the point in lying about one’s age. I know a lot of younger people who are smarter than I will ever be, and I know some folks with a few years on me who are absolute morons. It means so little, that number. Meaningless or no, it keeps climbing and adding up. Another year around the sun. I’ll do my best not to fritter away, act a fool, or fuck up this new year of mine.