Twenty-six in a Fishbowl Year 




My mother makes her own two-layer birthday cake

and I am hanging around with the others for the spoon, 

the bowl or one of the beaters to lick. 


I ask how old she is—all I know

is that she is older and taller than me. 

She says twenty-six


and I can imagine twenty-six but not

twenty-six years old—she is so old.  I wonder

how it will feel to be twenty-six


someday.  But the year I turn 

twenty-six, I confuse myself.

Going through a divorce


and moving my little ones 

a hundred miles away, I think twenty-

seven all year long.  Totally miss twenty-six. 





Melva Sue Priddy