Six Dozen Years Plus Three

 

SIX Dozen Years PLUS THREE

 

 

If I could pack the years in dozens,

safe in a cardboard box like eggs,

instead of blowing out candles,

I would open a carton of years:

the first dozen for the basics--

cracking shells, making messes,

and being coddled.

Humpty-Dumpty years.

 

I’d scramble the next dozen

with education and its ingredients:

testing the spice of life,

tasting and savoring it all,

finally on my own,

but sometimes missing

that snug cardboard nest—

worried I might break.

 

The third dozen years

are all in one basket:

deviled by home and family and

being in charge of everything,

whether I wanted to be or not.

wanting occasionally to crawl

back into a carton, a basket, a nest:

anywhere I could sleep…

 

I open the fourth dozen

with hesitant, careful hand..

new identities—not just mom,

or chauffeur or cook—

cautious rediscovery of who I am,

a panoply of Easter egg

resurrections, there for the taking,

in all their rainbow colors.

 

Five could be the magic number:

 the rounded years, with all rough edges gone.

Smooth sailing, or

at least it should be.

A couple dozen short of a lifetime,

deliberately paced,

taking in the show,

marveling at the speed of transit.

 

 

 Dozens of precious fragile years…

sweet and flavorful, as filled with zest

as birthday cakes and picnics,

as Christmas mornings and Saturday breakfasts…

cracked and messy, scrambled, beaten,

whipped to froth or brought to souffle-heights,

six dozen (plus three) irreplaceable years,

 and the 7^th yet to come.

 

 

--Mary McElveen--