If The Fates Allow.

It is 3:32 and I am premature for Christmas and overdue for everything else. I don’t know what it is about growing older; suddenly I am crying because my family merely exists somewhere on the earth, they are so dear. One sentence has prompted this swell and it runs marathons in my head today. You are your mother’s daughter. You are, you are. In my laughter, terrible faces, tantrums. I call and say that I’m the man of the house, and I’m tired of it. You say how much like my father I really am because of how smart I’ve turned out to be after all, and because I work tirelessly. I guess no one predicted, no one believed me when I said I’d do this. I have taken the blood in my veins for granted. But now I am grown, and now I know.