It’s not nearly a blizzard, but the snow is swirling in fits of wind that punch through the symbolism of a transparent transition. At least it is supposed to be symbolic. I’m supposed to recognize the moment of awakening like a knife plunging into a major artery. Or something even more dramatic. Maybe. Maybe nothing more than a blip.
I’ve never done this before. I’m new.
Today marks the day I am twenty-nine years, three hundred and sixty-four days (and now a little more than nine hours) old. Accounting for leap years, I am ten-thousand, nine hundred and fifty-six days on this earth. Nine-hundred and forty-six million, five hundred and ninety-eight thousand (give or take an few hundred) seconds, for the math heads out there. That’s right. For those of you still tagging along, tomorrow is my thirtieth birthday.
I have no delusions of grandeur. Another day. Another notch on the crumbling telomeric recession of my chromosomes. Another opportunity to acknowledge the step stones that brought me to where I happen to be standing today and — on marking such a willfully non-descript landmark — casually mention that the twenties were interesting, to say the least.
Maybe the sun will come out in the morning. Maybe the wind will hush for a moment. Maybe there will be a chance to capture a fragment of peace in that small slip of a space between where I am now and where I will be soon, inevitably. Either way, on this thirty-eve there is always room for a passing reflection, an acknowledgment to say onward.