At the antique mall with a friend,
buried in a bin: a Florence Griffith Joyner doll,
comes with a full set of nail stickers. I read once that
during a race her nail flew off; after it
ended she walked the track to
find it. Her miniature wears a one-legged bodysuit, neon
green and pink, the detail I most associate with
her. My friend asks if she’s still alive. I look
it up—no, 1998, seizure in her sleep,
just before her 39th birthday. I only now, in midlife,
know how young that is to die. When I was
little, forty was my father’s scratchy cheek,
my mother’s face cream. Forty was inevitable. Death had
not yet entered my mind, though soon I’d learn. My
old babysitter, my classmate whose father skidded
past the stop sign one winter, Anne Frank, Titanic, I couldn’t
quit learning death. I’m still learning it,
researching even the slightest
symptoms, wondering each birthday how much more
time. I set down Flo-Jo’s cardboard home. My friend holds
up another doll. I look this one up too, déjà
vu, only she’s alive, Billie Jean King,
white tennis dress with blue Peter Pan collar,
x number of years left. Next month, I’ll turn forty. Well—
you never really know. I should. 4-0. In tennis, the
zero is love. 40-love. I would love to turn forty.
