On Being 47

beside the white chicken

On Being 47

I loathe Arial font.

I multitask too often at the expense of enjoyment these days.
I wish I didn’t feel the need to multitask.
I need to slow down, take deeper breaths, and relish the moment before it’s gone.
I feel better when I do.
I’m getting there.

I make lists of words just because I like the sounds of them: 
cerulean, unfettered, undaunted, feckless, charcuterie.
I like the meanings of those words too.
I read books with well-developed characters whom I want to befriend.
I befriend people who read books with well-developed characters.
And then we talk about those books.

I married my Junior prom date six years after our “Unforgettable” night. 
Together, we bought an acre of land on which to grow a family.
We were adopted by a calico.
I am grateful God gave me boys.
I nostalgize for the days when my oldest climbed onto my lap.
I could put my chin on the top of his head and breathe in his Aveeno shampoo.
He’s taller than I am now.
I am the pot to his kettle; we are both made of the same mettle.
I ugly-cried-couldn’t-catch-my-breath the day after he left for college.
I marvel at the kindness and patience of my youngest.
I try to emulate him.
He likes vanilla so I don’t have to share my chocolate.
I resist the urge to tether him to my nest,
because oh how he will soar when it’s his turn.
I never knew a heart could hold so much love
until these two entered my world.
I relish how much I have learned since I became their mother.

I live a mile from my brother and his family.
I live two miles from my parents.
I talk with my mom nearly every day.
I miss my grandparents.
When I pray, it is to my grandmother.

I cherish old friends.
I lean on memories and mentors.
I am an emotional saver.
I look forward to meeting new people.

I face my demons head-on. 
I don’t always win the battles.
I celebrate the strength I gain from the struggle.
I never lose; I learn.

I second guess myself, and sometimes I just can’t get out of my own way.

I get hangry. 
Often.
I can never have enough cheese, chocolate, or wine.
I am so easily mollified with food and drink.

I make up Italian-sounding words to sing along with Andrea Bocelli 
in my kitchen when I make sauce with hand-picked tomatoes
and fresh-clipped basil.
I grow my own tomatoes and basil,
and I would like to learn to speak Italian.

I wipe tears from my eyes when I double over with laughter.
I sing in my car until my voice is hoarse.
I dance in my kitchen with my whole body.
My performances are legendary,
albeit without audience.

I cook.  I write. I garden. I take photographs. I teach. I lead. 
I’m never fully confident I do any of these things well,
but I do them with zeal.

I don’t often know how to end my poems.