What I really wanted for my birthday was something I couldn't explain.
I wanted homemade cards with lucky pennies and seashells taped inside.
And a stint in my own skin, to see it unprepared, without illusion. Time to embrace the lines that have formed, and remember why they are there in the first place. A chance to soothe my tired body, to look into my eyes, past the smoke and mirrors. Time to relax. Breathe. Listen. See my shadow. Understand where I have been and where I am going. Heal. Rest my head. Hear what comes to me in the quiet of my mind.
Cards made with hand-picked flowers and feathers that fell from the sky. Paper decorated with crayons and Christmas bows, and scribbles made into song.
A chance encounter with Sunday, when the world stops and I feel untouchable. Time without ringing, blinking or noise. Hours to walk or run – fast, like when I was a child. Moments to feel the wind if I so desire, read a book of my own choosing. Time to feel the sun and breathe the air in my own, unlocked space.
I wanted poems and pickle trees and noodle designs. Cards full of love and adventure confetti. Handprint silhouettes with rocks and stars to wish upon.
And time to realize what I liked and what I like, and who I am, uninhibited. Time to let my compass decide which direction makes me, alone, fulfilled. Time to open my heart and forgive. Time to recall how it once was and time to peacefully abandon what no longer is. Time to embrace change and courage and continue dreaming. Time when I am unaccounted for, and only the sunset knows my whereabouts.
I wanted to remember, when I do have time, what it's like to paint a rainbow.