looking back at me in the mirror these days. Lines under his eyes, speckles of gray, a bit worn on the edges. I’m not sure what to do with him yet.
I’ve always wondered how people grow old. The only thing I’ve figured out is that is happens slowly for the most part, so gradual that it misses perception. You simply get used to your face and your body and hardly notice what’s going on until you go to a high school reunion or have your friends post pictures of their grandchildren on Facebook. Then you pay attention. “Dang, I’m old, what the heck happened?”
I suppose everyone thinks they’re immune from wear and gravity when it comes to themselves. Other people get old, for sure, but me I’m simply not one of them. It may be a blessing or a curse that we don’t always get to see our face, only others. We don’t have to notice what they notice or see how time is working its art on us. Plausible deniability.
The truth is that I’m not upset about it all. I’m really more curious. Part of me would like my 18 year old body back but most of me enjoys being immune from its testosterone induced terrors. I watch the changes from the perspective of one who has experienced the richness of time. I know things now and so the face in the mirror isn’t so horrible as I might have thought it would be when I was 20. The world is moving on and my body is marking the passing.
I think, if the truth is told, that I will enjoy being old except for the very last part of it. The whole idea of laying in a bed and struggling for breath doesn’t appeal to me but I understand its the last task I must accomplish. I’m on my way home you know and it seems we all have to leave as we came, weak, vulnerable, but full of potential. So I’ll cross that river when I come to it.
Yet I will enjoy the quiet, the setting sun, the preciousness of each day ahead. No face lifts, please, I want the embalmer to have to work for my money, and I have resolved to let the rest of the string spool out as it will, God being my hope.