She's turning 30. And I mean, turning. Walking, one street fades like a dawn fog and without a signpost or a lamplight she strides into Next, and 24 hours - towards a café she isn't sure is really as open as advertised.
The neon sign blinks off. Everyone whispers "it's done." "Go home."
Wait for it. Oscillation is in our skin -- children rock forth and back, so.
I don't know how she does it. I'm grateful for her (so much).
Happy Birthday Mai.