in sixteen days. Years ago birthdays meant presents and fun. They snuck up on you and yelled,  ‘Surprise!’ like some secret party that you were already aware of and yet had to pretend to be caught off guard.

Now they come often, with a matter-of-fact approach. Whispering every quarter, ‘Gosh, only x more months and you’ll be that age.’

I listen. 

My ducks aren’t all in a row on anything. Some are missing, misplaced and generally not at attention. These days writing is therapeutic.

Many years have passed. Some things are resolved I think, others are not so clear. Mostly it is learning to accept my lot in life.

I live a life that is day to day. In truth, I have no idea who I am. Roles are played that the day calls for. It is the only way I know. Shakespeare said something of the sort. My script was written for a set number of acts and then my portion of the play will be finished. Times of happiness, as well as sorrow and sadness. All in a play. All in a life.