I write my dates differently

it’s a more European style

I started in 2020

that year changed a lot.

06/01/20

Could easily be altered to 06/01/2025

and yet

the author of this poem

was not so easily altered

in that semi-decade

twenty-five to thirty years of age.

I moved states and back.

Grew a love and built a family

filled so many holes in myself

picked up the ropes I let slack.

Addressed my mental health

married the woman of my dreams.

Owned two houses

buried two men of my mother’s kin

deconstructed what I once

held as close and as true

as breath itself.

It was a split decision-

the change in format

of writing a date

something I do every workday

I thought it looked more professional

more appealing.

Maybe it was the decision

made for pragmatism and aesthetics

that set me down the path

to be who I am today.

What set each butterfly wingbeat into motion,

crossed the threads of fate,

and strew my life across the constellations?

Had I not changed the way

I write the date

would I be the same me?

Who could say?

It’s too late.

The change has already been made.