Fifty soon.
Strange how that number
feels both heavier and lighter
than expected.
I wake before the house stirs.
Kettle on.
Dogs at my heel—
the old one careful on the tiles,
the young one waiting for the day
like it might break open just for her.
A magpie sings on the powerline,
low and fluted—
not calling,
not warning—
just there.
Like me.
The track behind is long,
marked with all the right things:
mud, fire,
boys with scraped knees and full bellies,
a wife who still sees me
when I go quiet.
The years haven’t made me wise,
but they’ve made me slower to speak,
and better at listening—
especially to my sons,
who keep handing me pieces of myself
I didn’t know I’d dropped.
There is more life to come.
I can feel it humming in the floorboards.
Not louder—
just steadier.
And if this is the halfway mark,
it’s a fine place to pause.
To stand with the sun
not at my back
or in my eyes,
but warming my chest.
The magpie sings again.
Not a beginning,
not an ending—
just the middle of a good song
I still get to hear.
Ryan Stone
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