You’re 37, but you aren’t really 37

At 37, but you aren’t really 37.

You’re actually 25, and you’re a bride — loved up and pink each morning.

And you’re 12, and you there’s fresh blood on your fingers.

You’re 11 and you have small breasts.

You’re 31 and you have laugh lines.

You’re 15 and you cover your zits but you aren’t fooling anyone.

You’re 32 and you cover your dark circles but you aren’t fooling anyone.

You’re 14 and you hate your mom because she doesn’t UNDERSTAND you.

You’re 26, and they put your baby girl in your arms, and you’ve known her all your life.

You’re still 26 and you haven’t slept in three months and your breasts are leaking twin moons on your shirt.

You’re still 26, and your heart doubled in size.

You’re 19 and you love to dance.

You’re 5 and you like to fingerpaint.

You’re 18, and you get to vote and it MATTERS.

You’re 2 and NO NONO NO NO NONONONONONO!

You’re 4 and you have the best Halloween costume ever.

You’re 21 and you’re finally doing body shots legally at Raleighs.

You’re 7 and you just read your first chapter book — Ramona Quimby Age 8.

You’re 8, and you want to be a writer.

You’re 34 and you’ve had really really really good sex.

You are 27, and you are chasing your little girl through wet grass while new life kicks you in the rib.

You’re 35, and you have even MORE laugh lines.

You’re 13 and you’re ugly.

You’re 13 and you’re beautiful.

You’re 28 and you hold your second baby and learn that the heart can grow until Forever with room enough for everyone.

You’re 33 and your hands are your mother’s and you’ve forgotten what you wanted to be when you were 8.

You’re 30, and you helped break your marriage in two jagged pieces.

You’re 16, and you’re kissing and kissing and kissing the boy you love until you’re both aching and blue.

You’re 22 and you’re wailing over your mother’s open grave.

You’re 36 and you wrote a book.

You’re 32 and you built a house with your two hands and made a home for you and your kids on your terms.

You’re 25 and you’ve climbed a mountain, and swum with dolphins.

You’re 37 and you write it down, because you’re living, and you’re living well, and you want to remember you’re all these things, too on this wild ride around the sun all over again.

(Illustration by Avi Katz)