It's a Sunny Day, You're 73

It’s a sunny day, you’re 73.
You’ve forgotten more than you remember,
but some things stay:
Like the first time you broke something,
and knew it couldn’t be fixed.
Like the sharp scent of rain on roads after
the storms you let exist.
Like the feeling of heartburn after that meal,
and how your favourite perfume was once a gift.
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You’ll look back and see the good:
the loves, the laughter,
the mornings you didn’t rush to get anywhere,
the spaces you filled with your light and conversations that stretched past midnight.
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And you’ll see the bad too.
The doors you slammed,
the voices you raised,
the hands you let go of when they needed holding.
You’ll remember how easy it is to stumble
into being the villain in someone else’s story.
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But here’s the thing:
You’ll also remember how 23
was spent learning to say, “I’m sorry,”
for what you said at 21.
How 24 was spent realising you were still learning
how forgiveness doesn’t come all at once-
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One day, it will be a sunny day,
and you’ll be 73.
And you’ll know that the places you lived
will speak louder than the place you’re buried.
Remember the kitchen where you cooked Thai green curry,
the park bench where you sat,
and for the first time, shared your story.
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We only remember the stories we share.
So share them.
Tell the good ones,
the messy ones,
the ones where you didn’t come out clean.
Tell them for your sake,
to lighten the load.
Tell them for the sake of friendship,
so connection grows.
Love might share the same space where honesty lives.
If you have nothing to good to say,
then let the pain give.
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And when it’s a sunny day,
and you’re 73,
you’ll know that living wasn’t about getting it right.
It was just about staying long enough
to try.