Life Story

The story of my life begins
during the summer that I am twenty-three
It is a hot (but cool) July when I fall in love
with a concept

But maybe my life story begins earlier.
On the cold winter night
when I am nineteen and met
The man whom I will eventually marry

Then again, I tend to think
My life story really begins
the bitter fall of my fifteenth year
when I fell in love for the first time
with an awkward Russian hockey player

But no, my real life story begins
at the tender age of four; who knows what season?
When my parents entered the realm
of the divorced.

Almost too late I realize that
I am being far too poetic.
It is logical. Clear really.
Isn’t it?

My life story begins at the beginning.
At the moment I gasped my first breath of earthly air

But,
the poet in me screams
WHAT ABOUT THE MOMENT OF CONCEPTION?
Did it not begin then?

But,
WHAT ABOUT THE MOMENT BEFORE?
Did it not begin then?
Perhaps.

Or perhaps,
it all began with the woman who is my mother.
During the summer that she was twenty-three
when she fell in love
with a concept.