Three More Days 'Til Seven

Her teeth are tiny perfect shells scattered in her mouth. She will be seven years old on Friday. Seven is second grade, skinned knees, and a tooth under the pillow. The sun shines on her afternoon, and on her face. Spinning feels crazy and free and birthdayish. (Even if it isn’t ‘til Friday). Dizzy and crazy and whirling through space. Spinning at seven is falling in a heap on the grass. Her cat wonders why the girl is on the ground And blinks his golden eyes in the sun. She lies on the grass in her yard with the cat Purring beside her (still blinking). Her brother bangs the screen door carelessly. He is twelve, and noisy. Only three more days til seven. Of course, there will be a party With presents and pink cake and scatter-toothed grins. When she is seven.