I'm officially one year old today. It's called a rebirthday by transplantees because it marks the day your new life began. One year ago today, Day Zero, was the day I got pulled from the wreckage of my old bone marrow, and it was the first day of the rest of my life. So March will always be my birthday. But May 29th is my Rebirthday. And the gratitude I feel for being here to celebrate it, not to mention the May birthdays of the two people I love most in all the world, simply defies description.
by Joyce Sutphen
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.