I keep thinking this line from a play: it takes the body 18 years to replenish every cell. We are literally new every 18 years. When my niece turned ten, she whispered to me on the phone that ten was different, she and her friends had special rituals and wishes. At ten, you knew things, we knew things. I remember ten: tea parties under apple trees, in my great-grandmother’s beaded dresses with my cousin, promising we’d spend the day before our weddings together. Forever seemed like soft bat wings, sweeping and diving. My marriage was 18 years; my cousin was not there. I am as never before, am literally new. The sky is full of clouds settling down like hens. Morning is the time for hunger. When I can’t sleep, I count backwards, count beads, count hungers, count orchards.
Ruth Dickey has spent 25 years working at the intersection of community building, writing, and art. Her first book, Mud Blooms, was selected for the MURA Award from Harbor Mountain Press and awarded a 2019 Nautilus Award. The recipient of a Mayor’s Arts Award from Washington DC, and an individual artist grant from the DC Commission and Arts and Humanities, Ruth is an ardent fan of dogs and coffee and lives in Seattle. More at ruthdickey.com.
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