At ten I was unmoored
a child set adrift,
no father’s hands steady,
only houses that shifted,
countries that opened and closed
like faulty doors.



At twenty I dissolved
clouds of smoke,
laughter drowning
the empty lecture halls.
I danced with shadows
and called it education.



At thirty I kissed light
Barcelona’s streets,
wine and salt air,
her laughter beside me.
I was still lost
but the sun forgave me.



At forty I was anchored
father, husband,
mortgage and morning routines,
the wild edges smoothed
but not erased.
The struggle itself felt holy.



And now
forty-seven.
Breath shortens when I count.
How many more years?
What do children remember:
my patience, or my absence?
The woman I vowed to love,
have I been flame, or smoke?



The ladder I have climbed
books, ideas, code,
always higher,
yet the top dissolves
into sky.



Still, the question remains:
Is it enough
to walk forward,
knowing no ground is certain,
no victory permanent?
Yes
because fear itself is beauty,
and the unknown
is where love
takes root.