Air Magic Bird

92 Months

92 months. 92—the first thought that comes to mind is the 1992 Dream Team: Air. Magic. Bird. When I checked the sobriety calculator today, not remembering the number from last month and saw 92, I was kind of like, “oh wow.” Like, 92 feels like a long time while only a month ago, 91 didn't create that same sense of feeling though every day, month, year—no matter what, holds impactful significance, especially with all that has been going on lately. Comes with 92 some kind of realization.

92 also makes me think about that song “99 Luftballoons.” Seven months away—one day at a time, as I journey toward such a number, at 99, I’ll listen to it. Until then, I’ll just lull myself away to the Minecraft soundtrack.

I can't think of a better way to share my 92 months than with the seniors graduating tonight, especially my dear friend's son who I've been seeing grow into the most respectable young gentleman since he was a little bitty. These seniors have been through so much lately, and to see them forge together reminds me why I always say that I pretend to teach because I learn more from my students than any kind of knowledge I provide in the classroom.

Martha is proud of us all.

Mirror mirror on the wall, I say—cupcake candle and arched heel to reach inside and pull out my own tongue. Go see yourself, I say and take a step into where I would be sitting 92 months ago, on the threshold of the bottom or top, a team of dreams, indeed, to where the fish and net shore over a skull full of Skittle dropped pennies. I find—I find, I say to the figure, listening to the otter paws of friction, a warmth to rub the nose with tiny shadows of beaded necklace.

You know—I know—you know? I know. I know and I know, you know—so no looking back until you’re ahead.

92 for me and you.