On Growing Older
My parents always whispered that thunder was God bowling, but I wasn’t raised religious. Now, I pray for things like whisky, and bruises on my chest, try to figure out if prayer is enough, or if enough is even the answer in the end.
There are rainstorms and knots of worms that roll at my feet. I whirl around until my hands grip my elbows and stars are breathing in my face. In. Out. The exhale of life that reminds us everything is fleeting — and your hands can’t catch the water drops.
Days spill into each other, and the sun peels from the horizon. I want lightning to shake down my bones.
Under the kitchen window, we bloom – cherry tomatoes waiting for the chance to be chosen. All that’s left is a prayer over spilt whisky, and an overturned bowling pin.
