Birthday Yearning

anchorage n. the desire to hold on to time as it passes, like trying to keep your grip on a rock in the middle of a river, feeling the weight of the current against your chest while your elders float on downstream, calling over the roar of the rapids, “Just let go—it's okay—let go.”

(The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, John Koenig)

—

Five. Under the table tantrum in McDonalds. I could never handle losing games.

Nine. Food fights across the table with my best friend. We loved and hated each other.

Thirteen. My Dad took a photo of me at the kitchen table. The beginning of the goth era.

Fifteen. Camping in a farmers field. Smoking too much weed and watching the sun go down.

Sixteen. A huge knickerbocker glory and giant badges. 

Seventeen. Sandy camps and pints of Pimms. Tasting the salt of sunrise.

Eighteen. Theatre and ferris wheels in Manchester. Chinese food at 10pm. 

Twenty. Rehearsals and blues bars in Camden.

Twenty One. Great Western Road. Cheesy wotsits and biscuits for the dog. All squished into my bed; stinking drunk. My Dad struggling to get down the stairs. 

Twenty two. Green face paint all over the walls.

Twenty five. The West Coast. Gigha Halibut. Morning swims. Walking the track up the back of the house on the afternoon of my birthday. 

How I felt so old all of sudden. The first without Dad. 

Twenty eight. Lockdown. Solo morning dancing. Yoga training, zoom parties and pizza out the back. Neighbours and sweet, sweet Glasgow arms. 

Thirty. Donkey sunrise. My Mum with all my favourite humans. Potato salad galore in the greenhouse in Perthshire. Beag a puppy trying to stay awake whilst we danced next door. Feeling found, all of a sudden. 

Thirty One. Turquoise sea swims, pizza and dancing. 

—

Tomorrow I’ll be 32 and we’ll have a new government. 

Today, hollowed out, I laid in a long grassy meadow with Beag. Let the long grasses tickle my cheeks. Face hot with Devon sun. Arms spread wide; star shaped in revery and nostalgia. 

Impossible to hold on to anything for too long, but flicking through snapshots of years passed. Moments with feeling faded. 

Grief and gratitude.

Homesick for something that doesn’t exist and yearning for something imagined.

I am getting better with these breaths now. 

It all passes; surges, rises and falls. The patterns and rhythms and waves. 

It’s a circle. 

It’s all and both and I am in between.