H33

So you’ve caught up with me,

and you now can

declare you are also thirty-three.

Two and thirty other silly little times you’ve

had cards and gifts, but those are now only fond debris

compared with what I hope you should

expect, next.

I’ve listened and observed as you’ve

skipped over and swerved steps and rocky

obstacles. Those hurdles that once

were ahead in the distance are a glance

over your shoulder now.

Colourful you

has danced on stony boulders.

Stapled fairy lights across doorways,

painted pots and chanted songs about churches with me.

 Like your little spider plants,

you’ve grown all over unstoppably:

unashamedly strong, unapologetically free.

And so: did you take a chance on a little romance?

Shall we talk saris, shiny costumes and a

gift-wrapped bindi?

Yes, there were those other mediocre, throwaway men,

and then

there was

 Indie.

This is a story that could write itself backwards,

a new nostalgia. A fable

so familiar the beginning escapes you.

Thinning and threadbare, the memory of you without him

Will soon disappear somewhere.

Just as the memory of my life before you

isn’t true. You are my warm weather forecast

heralding sunny days

until the end of the

summer and for always.