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