Charles Lamb once wrote, Every man hath one day, at least, in every year, which sets him upon revolving the lapse of time, as it affects his mortal duration. It is that which in an especial manner he termeth his. What is this strange intrigue of possession? It is the notion that this increment of space, sustained by moments and measured by numbers, can belong to me. Can hours be defined, categorized, bracketed? If so, I would place tags on the hours - that seemingly measurable space between {twenty three} and {twenty four}. One small leap between two neighboring numbers - and yet, so much falls between the decimal points.
Twenty three was the year of conquest; not over others, but myself. This was the year I conjured the courage to lift the bedskirt and face my monsters, barefaced and brazen. Twenty three would be the year I would come to treat more often upon the unmarked terrain of inward identity to chisel away at and polish the concave regions of within and to find there an undiluted beauty. Twenty three was my stab at sophistication; elegance; poise - and all along a growing realization that elegance isn't exactly my savoir faire when battling my work computer and one can hardly pass as dignified when having awoken to a silent alarm clock two hours' late. And, once again, loving the contradiction.
At twenty three, I graduated. Twenty three was the year I picked up and moved to Salt Lake City. It was at twenty three that my sisters and I had one last summer together. Twenty three was the summer my sister and I spent a summer in San Diego. At twenty three I combatted forty-two plus hours in rush hour. At twenty three, I interned on Capitol Hill with Mark Shurtleff, learning this, this, this and this. Twenty three was the year of coffee shops and writing groups. At twenty three, I mastered the art of red velvet cake balls. I helped promote the invisible children movement and began my story in ink, as inspired by Tess, Holmes, and Anna.
© 2012 by Rachel Lowry. All rights reserved.
