Almost Seven

I whisper to the butterflies in my tummy, “Go to sleep now.”

But they don’t listen.

They flutter and tumble and bump against my ribs like they’re trying to take a peek of the morning before I do. I squeeze my eyes shut until they crinkle at the corners. I press my blanket over my head, building a small, warm cave of almost-seven.

Because when I open my eyes next— I won’t be six anymore.

I will be seven.

Seven feels taller. Seven feels braver. Seven feels like the kind of age that knows how to tie its own shoes and maybe even keep a secret or two.

I try very hard not to spoil the surprise—even though I already know exactly what waits for me. Paper chains looping from wall to wall, color spilling across the ceiling. Balloons scattered so thick across the floor that I won’t even see the rug, only a sea of bright, bobbing morning.

Balloons taped to the bathroom mirror so even my reflection looks like it’s celebrating. Streamers hanging in every doorway— soft curtains I will push through like I am stepping onto a stage where everyone has been waiting for me.

Last year, there were pink pancakes, because pink was my favorite when I was six. But tomorrow I will be seven, and seven is purple. Purple like petals on a flower. Purple like the sky just as the sun starts to rise. Purple is like something new and important.

I squeeze my eyes tighter. I can hear it now—the hush of tape pulling, the whisper of paper twisting, the careful footsteps of love moving through the dark.

The butterflies are wide awake. 

And so am I.

Published by:

Issue 14, Traditions & Rituals

July 22nd 2026