When I was 20, my superpower was being 20. I could fly on four hours of sleep a night. Leap tall freshman with nothing to eat but sugarless gumballs.  Breakthrough bad grades with an extra semester of easy classes.

When I was 30, my superpower was poetry and music and Sunday nights at the Green Mill and boys named Mark and being a blonde. And then a redhead. And then a blonde. And then a redhead.

When I was 40, my superpower was women.  Sleeping with them, moving in with them, fighting with them. Then writing poems about sleeping with them, moving in with them, and fighting with them.

When I was 50, my superpower was motherhood. Waking each day to bowls of tiny fish-shaped pretzels, tiny fish-shaped crackers, tiny fish-shaped pasta, and a newfound ability to cut green grapes in half with scissors and sing instructions to my son to get him to do anything. Time to go, Leo! Snow pants boots coat gator hat, gloves and backpack after that.

At 63 my superpower is love. For myself. For everyone really. Even if you piss me off, I’ll get over it. I’ve had that much therapy. It’s being young enough to like being old enough. Being more sacred than scared. Drinking more water than wine. And when I wake up and find joy staring me in the face, I don’t toss it off like a blanket. 

I pull it on like a cape.