Thirty-Five

I have always looked young. Growing up I was the shortest in my class and people thought my younger sisters were older than me. As a child I used to dream that I would wake up with longer legs, urging them to stretch and grow in ways they never would. I was quiet and small and often overlooked.

When I was twenty-one I visited some colleges with my younger sister. Lunch was in the cafeteria and when it was my turn to pay, the woman looked at me and told me that children under twelve ate for free. My cheeks darkened with shame.

I recently turned thirty-five. I went to my cousin’s baby shower and my husband and children made me a blueberry lemon cake with cream cheese frosting. The night was cool, a relief from the recent heat, and the sky was painted in brilliant oranges and pinks that faded to blue at the edges. 

Children and a pandemic have aged me. I find strands of gray in my dark brown hair these days. Do I finally look my age? Do I look older? I no longer feel so young. I am caught between youth and middle age. After two pregnancies, my stomach is no longer smooth and I admire the dips and folds of my body. My hands have started to resemble my mother’s, thin blue veins more visible but still deft. Like her, I arrange flowers, choosing complementary shades and textures for my bouquets. I crochet and write and hold my children when they need me, my fingers running through their curls.

I am right where I’m supposed to be, I think for the first time in my life. Even though it feels as if the world around me is crumbling, I think of my own small little world and feel at peace. There is my family, my garden, and a new manuscript waiting for me to tear apart and build back up. I am always growing, learning, changing—twisting and bending through this one and only life of mine. And it’s okay if my hair turns gray because all I can see is color.