GBNRML | 06.13

GBNRML | 06.13


All I want for my birthday is for it to be given the same attention an agnostic would regard Christmas: respectfully aware of its implications to some (read: my mom’s body, my dad’s world), but zero obligation to deck the halls in revelry.

June 8, 1992:

I rocketed out into my dad’s arms, naked and slimy, with a shriek for a greeting, bringing with me no decency or user manual.

So you see why it feels odd to be a wiling recipient of blessings on a day inaugurated by my ill-mannered entrance into the world.

Plus, my calendar is stuffed with some significant notables:

My parents clocked 30 years (three bloody decades!) living out my favorite love story: their marriage.

The day after, my best friend and her husband counted up three of their own.

My cousin Ana will have new name by Sunday.

And meanwhile, our mother-adjacent sister, Abby, is becoming a real one to this fresh-out-of-the-oven blob turning beautiful, baby boy.

It’s been a hub of hoorahs and on each of these days, I become blubbering mush.

I gush and squeal and trip over the reel of adoration that is playing out for and between the people I love. I consider each hallmark event above as a birth in its own right — something made, maintained and rebuilt from nothing.

That’s when I realized: By ignoring my own, I cheapen the joy of Life by treating it as a participatory trophy to merely survive it.

This year I want to taste it.



“Sometimes I’m not sure how to feel so I think about a lot of things until I get an allergy attack.”

This poem has destroyed me 70 times seven this week.

Gabrielle Powell·
2 min
12 cards

Read “GBNRML | 06.13” on a larger screen, or in the Medium app!