At fifty-one
I am mostly sediment,
with a thin layer of optimism
still visible near the surface.
Dig carefully.
There’s a teenager down there
who thinks four hours’ sleep is plenty
and knees are silent by design.
Deeper still, a boy
lies beside a red bicycle,
both elbows scabbed,
summer packed beneath his fingernails.
The carbon dating gets unreliable here.
A dog collar. My mother’s hands.
A girl who never grew older.
Below that, the evidence changes.
Carbon. Calcium. Iron
forged inside a star
that died before anything had a name.
Apparently I have been extinct before.
Blown across several billion years,
gathered briefly into bones
and taught to worry about birthdays.
Fifty-one seems less impressive now.
I am ancient material
enjoying a very short career
as a man.
Ryan Stone
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