Forty-Six

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

I am forty-six,
and I keep forgetting to thank the coffee cup—
the chipped one with the crack
like a line on a palm—
for holding the bitter heat of morning
without complaint.

I forget to thank my knees
for still folding,
my teeth
for mostly staying,
my mother’s hands
for teaching mine how to break garlic
open like a prayer.

I forget to say
to the man I once loved:
It wasn’t your fault I changed.
To the child I never had:
I made room for you anyway.
To the mirror:
You were kinder than I gave you credit for.

At forty-six,
I still dream,
but the dreams have gotten quieter—
no more fame,
no cities named after me.
Just the wish
for a night of sleep without worry,
for my body to be still
without ache or guilt.

Sometimes I look at the life I’ve made
and ask,
Was this it?
Not in bitterness,
but in awe—
the way you might stare at a bird’s nest
made entirely from trash
and still call it beautiful.

I have lived
some days like songs,
some like arguments,
some like waiting rooms
with bad lighting.
I’ve buried too many versions
of myself
to pretend death hasn’t already
been practicing
on me.

But I am still here—
eating tangerines over the sink,
smelling like soap and rain,
writing my name
in every grocery list
as if it matters.

I have not thanked the silence
that held me
when no one else could.
I have not thanked the broken thing
inside me
for its devotion
to mending itself
over and over.

To live at forty-six
is to know
that dying
is not a question
but a slope.
That every breath
is a decision
we make
without ceremony.

And maybe
that’s the grace of it—
not in grandeur,
but in this:
that I still kiss the spoon
before stirring,
still keep a toothbrush
for guests
who may never come,
still whisper
thank you
to no one
at all.