peak lushness
turning 40
July 23rd
The color of this day is insect iridescent. The vibe is full sun. The day long, the night balmy campfires and stars and cicada song.
I’m not opposed to celebrating my birth, but this little piece of writing is for the particular point in spacetime that I keep spiraling back to, that belongs to me as I belong to it, that I love.
***
As of today, I’ve returned to this spot 40 times. I am 40 years old.
The only instruction for this day, the only gift, is to leave me alone to commune with the humid air and watch the goldfinches so tiny and vulnerable and bright yellow pick seeds from the sunflowers.
At night, take me to dinner.
***
When I’m getting ready for dinner, I try on every pair of pants I own, disagreeing with the way my hips look in them. Lush. Finally, I put back on the first pair I tried and throw on an old shirt that has been with me for years, that hangs loose over me. I wear no makeup except for lipstick.
Dinner is too rich. Too lush. Lemony martinis with sugar rims. He laughs. You have the booze palette of a teenager. Garlic rolls with honey clove butter and mac cheese and mashed potatoes and mushrooms and steak. We sit across the table from each other shaking our heads. You were 18 when I met you. How’s that possible?
You know, I say over Ray Charles booming a bit too loudly from the speaker above, I think the past ten years have really fucked me up.
Oh, for sure.
On the way home, the air is so thick we might as well be swimming. Windows down, steam coming up off the road, fog on the mountain, the moon following us. We sing.
Forty, so far, very lush.