What remains?

Ten days and my thirties; gone.

I leave them behind with the

red silk boxer shorts of my twenties;

the lycra gymnastics suits of the

teens; the pre-teen lump of wires

and permanent teeth, pulled to

makes space in my small jaw;

the blue summer nighties of

my single digits, and early

bedtimes while the sun still

sat high in the sky on the eastern

North Dakota plains and my

older brothers called to their

friends, still playing a game

of Capture the Flag.

What will be left on the

curb for early pick-up? 

What remains will be 

placed in a heavy plastic

tub for storage, stacked
in the basement from these years? 

Seems so much more than a decade

of my life. A divorce, a time

of dating that I never before

had (having met my first

man when I was but 15),

watching my two older ones

go from early childhood to

teens (this happens all in 

just one decade--amazing),

and then the remarriage

and a new baby to take me

out of the last year of my

thirties. It is all pretty much

splendor. It is sacred. It

won't come again in the same

way. I can now see why

it is so important to look

for fun as you go, feeling

just groovy. Turning
towards the sun.