Almost Sixty

Today I have lived 59 years and eight months, exactly. Sixty Septembers. Not counting the one in vitro. Not that this is of any significance to anyone else, other than maybe my mother, since this means she has aged to 84. Although she can't remember.

I feel 21.

Or maybe 28, as that is the year of my tsunami. Before that, I'd experienced nothing worse than a pet dying or a teen boyfriend break-up, usually with another prospect closely following. On my 28th birthday, my husband left. I was eight months pregnant and on the first day of a maternity leave from teaching that I had hoped wouldn't end until some years (and two or three more children) later.  In the chronology of my life, there's this big, bold slash in-between "up to 28" and "after 28".

On second thought, I really feel some age post-28, having long ago healed and deemed the ensuing character growth the best thing to have happened to me. Other than having and raising my son.

Still, feeling post-28 is a lot younger than feeling 59 years and eight months, exactly.