These days,
they melt like a Dali
minutes dripp-
ing
into
the hours
but seconds
pour, pour, pour-
ing
into the days.
I wear age
like I do my lipstick –
bright, bold, and red.
I am red years old.
Age is a number
that deceives like a Seurat,
dots fill-
ing
the years
but moments
beat, beat, beat-
ing the heart.
Red years old (though)
means vibrancy, brightness.
It means passion and spirit.
Someday is gray,
a rejection of color like a Picasso,
but
Not mine.
Mine smells of memory.
And I remain red years old.
Photo by Joey Nicotra on Unsplash
C. Streetlights
As a child, C. Streetlights listened to birds pecking at her rooftop, but instead of fearing them, was convinced they would set her free and she’d someday see the stars. Southern California sunshine never gave C. Streetlights the blonde hair or blue eyes she needed to fit in with her high school’s beach girls, her inability to smell like teen spirit kept her from the grunge movement, and she wasn’t peppy enough to cheer. She ebbed and flowed with the tide, not a misfit but not exactly fitting in, either. Streetlights grew up, as people do, earned a few degrees and became a teacher. She spent her days discussing topics like essay writing, Romeo and Juliet, the difference between a paragraph and a sentence, and for God’s sake, please stop eating the glue sticks. She has met many fools, but admires Don Quixote most because he taught her that it didn’t matter that the dragon turned out to be a windmill. What mattered was that he chose to fight the dragon in the first place. Streetlights now lives in the mountains with a husband, two miracle children, and a dog who eats Kleenex. She retired from teaching so she can raise her children to pick up their underwear from the bathroom floor, to write, and to slay windmills and dragons. She is happy to report that she can finally see the stars.
