The first one starts in squalling redness
In spank and wail.
A cutting of connection.
We swim out of liquid and the meter reads: “One.”
And so it goes.
The movement of springs and cog teeth meshing spin time until it clicks over.
Our bodies rotating around and around, 365.25 times before the hand rotates a notch
And the meter ticks over to “Two.”
Hands clenching, we squish the baked blackness, the sugary goodness between fingers. Like mud that finds its way inevitably into the mouth and upon face and table and floor. A goodness never before experienced. Always longed for ever after.
“Ten.” “Eleven.”
These days initiate us into a lifetime’s immersion in cake and candles, little flames with wax dripping on the icing.
And each time the date arrives in sync with clumps of people, like wisemen at the manger. All sprouting presents of ponies and packages and brightly bowed bags.
Like the candles, it’s impossible to blow away this day.
“Nineteen.” “Twenty.” “Twenty-One.”
Each landing of the day releases us, like a starter’s gun to walk and talk and read and write and count the days. And go to Kindergarten.
Each pushes us to put it in gear and our foot to the floor, to vote and dance and be drafted.
It punches the ticket of trips to Florida and retirement discounts.
At first, we strain at each one, trying to be older, to make the clock tick faster.
Then someday, yearn to slow down, hold it back. Hoping to look younger.
And at each there is a celebration, the gift of a life to the world.
Well wishes. Songs. Stories and pranks.
“Thirty-One.” “Fourty-One.”
I try to hide. Avoid it all. Until the gaggle of geese troop into my office. Sing the song.
And I give in to the movement of gear and spring and lightbeam of time.
Like the candles, it’s impossible to blow away this day.
This birthday.
