Jesus, another year

Why am I this lucky? Why am I this sad? I'm not the type to cry on my birthday. I'm the type to stare at myself in the mirror and pinch my skin and try to catch my reflection through peripheral vision to see if I can recognize myself as a teenager, as a child, as whoever I was a year ago. I'm the type to think: Ok, we've been given another year. What did I do to deserve this?

I remember turning thirteen. I was the last of my friends to become a teenager and it was a pretty big deal to me (I always wished I was older). We moved states that year and contrary to how you may think a thirteen year old girl would handle a cross-country move, I loved it. I enjoyed starting new. Touring potential homes with my family and walking the halls of my new school are fond memories. I liked making new friends and it never broke my heart to leave somewhere behind. I still don't attach much sentiment to the homes I've had throughout my life, just the people.

I remember turning sixteen; I waited an entire year to get my license. I hated driving. (I still do.) I had hair extensions and bangs and for a brief stint of that year, a black bob. I painted and decoupaged my bedroom walls with pages torn from old art encyclopedias. I hardly left my room and my parents didn't mind, as long as I was being creative in there.

I don't remember turning eighteen.

I remember turning twenty-three because it was the first year in a long time that nobody died. And every year since, I've taken a tally of who's left and thank the universe that they're still here. My stark awareness of the mortality of everyone I love tends to butt its head into every single one of my birthdays. I've heard time moves faster once you have children. And people wonder why I'm in no hurry to become a mother...

Ok, we've been given another year. What shall I do with it?