Birthday approaches

With my birthday drawing ever closer, I start thinking about a short story written by Sandra Cisneros. I can't remember if it was assigned in high school or college, but it captures the way I feel about birthdays pretty accurately. The gist of it is that when you turn eleven, you're not just eleven; you're ten, and nine, and eight, and so on, like a Russian nesting doll. Add a few more years and that's where I am: dreading the date like every time, while simultaneously hoping it will be spectacular rather than just Friday. Still, Ms. Cisneros has a point. It never feels any different than the day before, except there are people eating cake and singing happy birthday in your honor. Even with twenty-eight lurking around the corner, like some uninvited guest, I'm still all those other ages too.

Twenty-three, playing in my first roller derby bout



Twenty-one, out on a bar crawl with friends in Santa Cruz



Twenty, visiting Sweden for the first time



Eighteen, clawing at the walls to leave for college



And thirteen



And five



They're all in here somewhere. It's all just another year, another party, another candle on the cake.