Lily's Review
A reflection as my birthday nears:

There was a bumper crop of lilacs this year, wind that rose and fell like a breath and all around town, the trees have donned their brightest dresses, the mountains wait in reasoned shimmer... Or so it seems, when I've pulled my head from dreams; or so it seems, when I am here for just the moment.

And in this moment, it's still the year I have been; the time of thirty-three.  If only to hold some things of it forever, but the moment's not forever.  To capture the petals of it as if in the snow-globe that is my life, but tomorrow they would be yesterday's petals and what would I have to look forward to?

Somewhere in me, there's a still-child: wild-eyed apron clinger, she.  Monster imaginer.  Me. 

Yes, still me with all the other shades, the bright dresses; all the hopes and the half year parades.  And somewhere, another side, so old/ not old, so willing still to rush the summer sidewalk, to dance its farthest fields with the lilies and the wishes, with tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Don't fault the small hesitations, the way she pauses on her way, glances to the mirror, sees the banks of the moment, the water she is, always changing within it.

"You're growing up," she says.

Thanks as always to my assistants and to the contributors of this month's issue.  I am rich for the time and talent that has been shared with me.  And if you're reading this: thanks to you, too.  Whoever you are.

'Til next time.

Lily Editor

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