I am still alive

Yesterday was my birthday, and as easy as a clock slides its staggered hands together at the stroke of a new hour, or as simple as the thick sharpie crosses off week after week on the calender; i turned seventeen. My new number is only a place in time, a mere marker for society, and means little to me. But birthdays have always been a funny thing for me.

I remember last year when i turned sixteen. I cried all afternoon because my parents had a great blowup about my gift, an ugly gold car my father didnt mention to my mother. i now continue to despise the car because of the whole scene that day a year ago. And then when i turned thirteen i remember not being able to sleep for the entire week leading up to the 22nd because i hated the idea so much of becoming a teenager. Some year in between, i also recall getting very sick to my stomach and having to spend my whole day bent over the toilet, spilling my guts, while my friends sat in the other room watching movies and eating junk food.

Yes i never was good at birthdays.

This year, I woke up and went straight to the mirror. After staring at my reflection for a few moments, i turned away and began to get ready for school. As i curled my hair and brushed my teeth, i occasionally glanced back at my reflection. There was no surprises or changes looking back at me except for a small red bump above my lip. How pleasant.
My sister stayed home on my birthday because she "had a sore throat." I drove my last years gift to school and remembered how much i hated the vehicle once again the entire way there. I watched leaves flutter from branches as i drove down woodward; reminding me how much change is occuring in one way or another. For some reason, the falling leaves made me quite sad, and the image stained my mind for hours afterwords. A perfect song blared through my speakers as i turned into the school parking lot. So i stayed in my warm car until the last note hummed. In exchange, i received my third tardy in my first hour. I was four seconds late. How lame.
I have had the same best friends for as long as i can remember and on my birthday, one of them refused to talk. I came home for lunch bawling to my mother. Partially because of my hurt feelings from being ignored and having to each lunch alone on my birthday, partially because of the growing loneliness inside of me. I returned to art class and finished the day with a great amount of silence hanging around my lips.

My family came over for dinner. My uncle was late and came in upset because him and his wife were fighting again. His three children trailed behind with big eyes and mum faces. i gave each one a smile and we went to my room to color and to forget about grown-up problems.
Late last night my mother and i engaged in a long talk. I showed her the manila envelope my father gave me earlier. Inside there were two letters, both from my Auntie Jo. The first letter was typed on three sheets of white computer paper. It was about President Clinton and politics. My aunt reminded me of how special she thought i was and how i had to be strong in the crazy world we live in. The second was hand written on yellow notebook paper and creased at the center. Once again, tears flooded my eyes as i read the words written in pen. The letter was written the day my papa died as my aunt sat in the Detroit airport.
I told my mom about how i was scared of growing old, yet how i yearned to be independent and free from adolescence. I also told her how i hated school and felt lonely often times, and how i was always aching all over my body, and how ive thought about running away and have had a secret bag packed under my bed for quite sometime. She hugged me and i continued to sob. We unpacked the bag together.


This morning i woke up late, got to school late and turned my pre-calc corrections in late.
I read Catcher and the Rye rather than taking notes on the middle ages during english.
In History i created a mural of world peace and daisies on my desk instead of listening to presentations on the late 1800s.
Durning art i played with dark charcoal untill it stained my fingertips and dusted my palms.
And in Health i finally slept.

On my way home from work i realized all the funeral homes were full. I came home and went running... to remind my lungs to continue to breath and my heart to continue to beat and to remind my mind i am still alive.