"27 Club"

A Poem

“27 Club”

Nostalgia holds this day in a vise grip.
Strangled by its pending existence,
I wander behind them more than a few steps,
running my fingers along the rusted, chain link fence, 
Relying still on a bad therapist's good tip, 
and living presently in a past moment. 

The merry go-round of memory loves to tease,
& like Joni's dark cafe days
or the dive bar's washed-up singer,
ghosts of my sullen past linger,
dancing their silent ballet
towards the house with no key. 

I visit there too often.
Long-mended bones longing
once again to be broken.
I knock once, twice. 
There is no answer, 
just the hush of purple dusk catching.

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Today, I turn 28.

Another year brings yet another moment to reflect on what has been, what is, and what could be. It’s official. I will never be part of the 27 Club, but somehow, I find that comforting. I catch myself staring at strangers with bits of grey parted in their hair and tickling their temples. I stand there wondering when exactly the grey will reveal itself on my head. Where will the first strand appear? How will I feel?

I don’t feel old, so much as I feel older. As you age, you consider things you never considered before. You appreciate small gestures more than you ever did before. You remember less of your life now because things roll off your back more easily than even the most mundane thing did when you were 19.

I weigh a little more than I’d like to and eat a lot differently than I used to. I seek rest and community more than I seek going out and individuality. But still, I am young and working towards something. That something has changed over the years, informed by world shifts, new perspectives, and personal struggles, but the pursuit of it remains a constant.

So begins the Late 20s, and someday, the early and mid-30s will follow in quick succession. By 40, 50, 60, 70, and 80, if I last that long, my hope is only that I am still reaching for something.

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