On turning 48

The light bends through the prisms of dangling yesterdays, stacked-up on floors, spilling off shelves, hiding underneath the papers in the bottom of my briefcase until I accidentally excavate them, following me wherever I go. Sometimes like circus mirrors, sometimes like vignetted dreams, they never knock or phone ahead; they act like that family member who always pretends not to notice that she has a habit of dropping in just before dinner is about to be served. Long ago they stopped insisting that they wouldn’t dream of intruding. Now they just pull up a seat as if it’s a given that I’ll set out a plate and silverware. Continue reading