today, i awake a quarter
century older. without
silver lining pockets
i pretend are sewn
above the owl heads
always staring back.
“who? who?” they ask,
eyes wondering up at me.
who am i? a girl who thinks
too much, bargains, no, pleads
“please, have mercy. do this for me,
i’ll do what you say. i know how weak;
needy i am. i can’t bear the shame which will come upon me. i will be strawberry, raspberry red in my cheeks. they will know, see flushed
inadequacy–“who, who?” the owls repeat. “all who love me in this state,” i think quietly, “but especially God, who brings me to my need in this disabled body.”
today, i’m 25 and as if I expected (because i did/do) wish to be a totally
changed girl, it didn’t happen. i’ve worried about two things i’m sure “normal” people don’t give a second thought.
My overthinking brain will most likely take years to hush, but at least my heart is quiet.
Quiet enough to expect God’s unfailing kindness towards me.