I keep a calendar on the wall,
Not for festivals,
Not for birthdays,
Not for the changing seasons,
But for counting the days
Until life finally remembers my name.
Each square is crossed with a hopeful hand,
Each month turned with the same question:
"Will it be this one?"
Yet another year folds itself away,
And another feather loosens from my skin.
I have sacrificed so much
That sacrifice no longer feels heroic.
It feels ordinary,
Like serving food while staying hungry,
Like smiling while swallowing storms,
Like carrying everyone's tomorrow
While postponing my own.
The world praises patience,
But no one speaks of the silent bruises
It leaves upon the soul.
I have tolerated delays,
Detours,
Disappointments,
And doors that opened for everyone else.
I stood aside.
I waited.
I told myself,
"Their turn has come;
Mine will arrive too."
But time is a swift thief.
It never waits beside those who wait.
The mirror has become honest lately.
It whispers truths
I once refused to hear.
A few more lines around my eyes.
A little more weariness in my smile.
A little less spring in my steps.
My body is learning the language of age
While my dreams still speak
In the voice of youth.
The mind that once ran like a wild river
Now pauses beside memories,
Counting losses,
Counting years,
Counting all the versions of me
That disappeared while I was preparing
For a future that never arrived on time.
Even my soul feels older.
Not broken
Just weathered.
Like an ancient tree
That still stands proudly,
Though countless seasons
Have stripped away its leaves.
And everything around me
Ages alongside me.
The walls grow older.
The photographs fade.
The people I love
Carry silver in their hair.
Children become adults.
Parents become fragile.
Friends become distant cities.
Nothing remains untouched
By the hands of passing time.
Yet here I am, still waiting.
Still believing.
Still writing tomorrow's name
On today’s empty page.
Still saving a corner of my heart
For the dream that refuses to die.
Sometimes I wonder
How many feathers I have lost already.
One for every compromise.
One for every postponed desire.
One for every night
Spent convincing myself
That next year would be kinder.
One for every opportunity
That arrived too late
Or left too soon.
There was a time
When my wings seemed endless.
I could imagine any sky.
Now I gather fallen feathers
From the path behind me
And realize
They tell the story of my life better
Than any diary ever could.
This feather
The year I chose responsibility.
That feather
The dream I folded and stored away.
Another Feather
The opportunity I surrendered
For someone else's happiness.
And another
The version of myself
That believed success had a schedule.
Still,
I refuse to call these feathers wasted.
They were the price of becoming
Who I am.
The proof that I endured.
The evidence that I loved,
Gave,
Waited,
And stayed when leaving
Would have been easier.
Yet some nights,
When the house is quiet
And the stars seem impossibly far,
I confess my fear.
What if my turn arrives?
After all my feathers are gone?
What if the dream finally knocks?
When my hands are too tired to open the door?
The thought lingers
Like winter air.
Cold.
Persistent.
Uninvited.
But dawn always returns
With its stubborn light.
And somewhere within me,
Beneath the tired bones,
Beneath the ageing skin,
Beneath the countless disappointments,
A small voice survives.
It says:
"Keep waiting."
"Keep walking."
"Keep believing."
Not because time is merciful,
But because hope is.
So I mark another date
Upon the calendar.
Another month.
Another year.
Another feather drifting softly away.
And though my wings are thinner now,
Though age has claimed its share,
Though the clock races faster
Than my dreams can follow,
I still look toward the horizon.
For perhaps
The purpose of feathers
Was never to remain attached forever.
Perhaps they fall
To teach us the value of flight.
And perhaps,
One beautiful morning,
After all this waiting,
After all this losing,
After all this becoming
I shall discover
That even with my lost feathers,
I have learned
How to soar.
-TdS