I’m turning 37 on Sunday.
I love getting older.
I’m proud of my age.
Being able to age is a gift; I cherish it.
Youth never fit me right.
It felt too small, constricting.
But this, ah, this is comfy.
I can move
And strut my wrinkles and spots.
I was looking at my hands last night.
They’re finally catching up with my soul.
They look like they’ve lived:
And been hurt
I wonder what they’ve yet to experience?
G-d willing I’ve got years and years to find out.
These hands wear the stories,
The lessons of my life.
This past year adorned them in simple wisdoms:
To be gentle
To be patient.
They’ve learned to listen to other hands—
To know when to hold on a little tighter
And when to let go completely.
We’ve caught up to one another.
It’s good to be alive.