I was born at 12:13 a.m.

so seeing the clock strike 13 past is how I always start off my birthday.

Last night, I was tired and it was a bit of an effort to stay up that late, but I did.

I think of my brother as I get older because he reminds me that aging is a privilege. That tomorrows are not promised. I embrace getting older because he never will.

As I laid my head down on my pillow last night, letting 30 sink in, I could smell him.
I could smell my brother.
A brother I haven’t seen since I was 16–who died when I was 17–here, in my subleased room in Melbourne, Australia, more than 10,000 miles away from the place where his bones lie.

Scent tornado coincidence?
Nostalgia-induced sense memory hiccup?
A visit from the ghost of sibling past?

I don’t know. I don’t have an explanation.

What I do have is the ending of the 10 yr. relationship that was my 20s, a circumstantial optimism about my 30s, and a life that I only pretend to understand.

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About J.

A former twentysomething with a head full of curls and heart full of questions wondering: when we get to nirvana, will there be food?
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