A surprise.
Your family has
gone out
and bought the cake.
Not the one you wanted-
not big enough to
fit
the it number of candles.
You croaked with
embarrassment
when they struggled
with the pieces.
And finally,
you let them get
the big one.
It, ablaze in wax.
This one fits,
they
say.
What they don't know
is that you are really
it plus one.
You hide it
in the crevices of your journal
or your diary
or under the fluffed blankets
at night.
You hide it like a trained
lethal
assassin,
but it crawls out in the morn.
It always does.
It comes to greet you in the mirror.
It says hello to you
when you eye the fresher,
younger
people, milling about.
It smacks you in the face
at every surprise
birthday party.
And now, you are
it plus two.
You remember
twenty years ago,
when you said
that it was a thing of fantasy.
You remember
forty years ago,
when you asked yourself
what is bad about it?
For your birthday
it has given you a wonderful
present.
You shake the box-
eager, but
not.
Is it
dementia?
Another wrinkle?
Cancer?
A retirement home?
It is none of those.
It is another tally
to strike in your journal
as you count down
the years you have
left.
-Le it hra
