39

I am 39 today. I was born on my grandparents wedding anniversary.

The other afternoon I was in my hairstylist’s chair, going as blonde as possible and talking in the deep end, when she stopped and stared into my mirror eyes, “are you the memory keeper?”

I am.

I am the memory keeper. The messenger.

It’s fitting, I see clearly now, that I was born on a day I share with my ancestry. That I’ve always shared my day and never felt like it was less for me. Only more. My roots climbing down into the soil, my branches growing taller.

From the time I was small I felt the call of keepsakes and journals. Like my job was record keeper, but unsure who hired me. Now my voice memos and notes and notebooks and napkins are filled with words.

39 feels substantial and I’d me lying if I said I was where I thought I’d be. But isn’t that the magic? Always a surprise. Luck and a lesson. A choice to listen to the beat of my heart, and the freedom to follow it.

Happy birthday to me! Happy anniversary to Noni and Tony. Happy birth-day to my mama. And thank you Mother for sending me ladybugs all weekend. The gift of this life leaves me stunned every day.