40
Fine lines appear
next to my grinning mouth
and smiling eyes.
Some call them crow’s feet.
They’re more like wings,
each feathered strand representing
40 years of joy
and sometimes sadness.
Lines mapping out a life intertwining
laughter, love, and grief.
My soft belly pushes against waistbands,
jagged, fading flames marking where
four babies stretched, thrived, and nestled there.
They intersect at the bottom,
mingling with a scar reminding me
that I have faced down
the frightening and the unexpected.
And I will again.
Some wear down the heels of their shoes,
memoirs of roads less traveled;
days survived step by step;
adventures yet to come.
The seams at my inner thighs
are rough, worn, and faded where
they rub each time
I take a step,
stand in front of a classroom,
race my toddler to the door,
or cross walk to a new adventure.
Around 30, coarse black hairs
like none I’d ever grown before
emerged at the tip of my chin,
brazen, dark and rough.
I pluck them, but thy reappear unbidden
- unapologetically –
to claim space,
reminding me to claim my space
- unapologetically –
at 10, 20, 40, 60, 80, and beyond.
40 is
Black coffins,
the macabre,
an omen of a life nearly
half over.
My 40 is
The scarlet, amber, and tangerine
of a gold-tinted sunrises,
fashion-risks,
quirky frames, winged eyeliner,
saying what I mean,
feeling deeply, unapologetically,
and wearing flats to preserve my aching feet for
the next adventure.
I am 40 and
I like who I am,
words I could only begin to say
at 30.
I am a kind face to strangers,
articulating my soul through pen,
messing up and trying again.
I am boldly red,
joyfully yellow, and
sometimes – unexpectedly – blue.
At 40, I am
madly in love with a man
whose face defies gravity
and friendship soothes my soul;
with kids outgrowing their baby fat
and donning opinions and ideals;
with friends and family
who age delightfully alongside me.
And, at 40,
I’m even learning to fall a little in love
with me.
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