For a Friend Turning Forty
Step up to the plate: our organs at half-life approaching best before dates. Skinny jeans meet orthotic insoles. Looking good, we say. Swing. Decide not to cover the grey.
Strike one: thyroid surgery.
Concentrate, stay loose in the knees. Look back at the stands and spot yourself in the bleachers, age ten, hot dog grin.
Count the innings in between. backpacking in Nepal to miscarriage, you will never again be as young as you are now. Smile, you say.
Say Lyme disease, say diabetes.
Strike two. Tap the plate. We need a pitcher, not a belly itcher. You hate baseball: all waiting around and not enough
foreplay. Mary Oliver in the hot corner, eyes on home base and it’s balls to wood, swing batta batta batta swing, your best crack for her victory lap.
You are the TSX index her mutual funds are measured against. You are prime plus, the president elect who knows what she wants and rips up Astroturf in pursuit of it.
Forty, we say, and clink our glasses.