Every year, the petals begin to unravel, soft and pink as sun-touched cheeks, during the week leading up to my birthday. They reach their height the day of. Once, I convinced myself they bloomed for me. Imagined the turn of my year to be a herald of approaching summer, these unfolding petals my trumpets. We are all born as gods and believers. I was so convinced of my own divinity I spoke life into my favorite trees, knew life in wild prophecies. Called the wind by spinning in tight, wild circles with my fingers splayed like chimes. There I stood— gangly little patron saint, spending all my miracles too early.