Still March

I had hoped when I opened eyes on this day that it would be April. I was none too fond of the month of March. It was a transition month, a go-between for winter and spring. The only worthwhile holiday was St. Patrick’s Day. But I was not Irish, and I was a modest drinker. In fact, the last time I have had any alcohol pass between by my lips was at a wedding in 2007.

The calendar still said March. The day was the 11th on a Wednesday. “Beware the I’s of March,” I joked with myself since the number one will sometimes look like the letter ‘I’ on the computer. A lame joke, I admitted. I knew the real term was ‘Ides of March’ on the Roman calendar and that day was on the 15th. I sighed at my weirdness. It was going to be one of those days.

Time passed uneventfully. I waited to hear back from a client who was supposed to send me her photos so I could incorporate it into her invitations in July. I wanted to send her a sample of what it would look like and get the green light to go ahead with things. Then I could start on her wedding at the middle of April. No calls came in today. Slow day. So I busied myself with other work while promising my mind that I would get some writing done today. I was still sending out queries, still tweaking my letter and manuscript, and still getting back encouraging rejection letters.

“I found your project fascinating, but I don’t think it is the right fit for me.”

“Although we don’t think your manuscript is the right type for us to represent, your writing shows promise. We would be interested in considering future projects from you should you choose to submit them.”

“Thank you for your query. While I believe your premise is interesting, I think I will pass on your project.”

Sigh.

The day was quiet. Peaceful and mundane. I would get a chapter written. I would treat my imagination with writing something fascinating and take my thoughts and emotions off of what this day really meant: a year older in my lifespan. It was the tick-tick in the inevitable clock from life’s beginning to life’s end.

On March the 10th, I was 33.

On March the 11th, I turned 34.

I lit a candle; something I have done for the past few years. My eyes gazed at the pooling wax, hot like the flashes of random instances coming upon me. They only lasted a few moments within the flaming wick to become burnt away in a puff of forgotten smoke from my memories.

Such lofty thoughts filled my mind. I chuckled about it. Here I was using a candle spark as an analogy for my existence. Many poets have already created such platitudes. Greater minds had a better grasp on it. I settled on just creating a small rhyme before bedtime as a gift to myself.

Breath and teary eyes told of my coming into life,
filled with everyday trials of joy and strife.
I mark this day with the simple flash of a candle’s light
wrapping my heart in warmth to hold back Death’s might.

“Happy Birthday, Michelle,” I told myself before blowing out the glowing wick.