Thirty.

Last week, I turned thirty. My dear friend Cori, having already crossed that bridge, mused that one’s thirtieth birthday should celebrate what is normally good in your life. And so on July 13th, I slept in, recalling my dreams, examining my hands and listening to the cicadas. I had a breakfast of Mount Rainier cherries and wrote my morning pages longer than usual. I went to the Eno River in one of my new Ghanaian dresses, and walked the trails for hours. I drove to my family’s farm where we ate fruit tarts and sherbet, and a breeze blew across the porch, and it finally began to rain. I hugged my baby nephew close and he wrapped his arms around me.

I feel ready.



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