Each morning, once I have completed the often unpleasant task of dragging myself from the womb of blankets, I make my appearance in front of the mirror.
I stare closely into it, and am unsurprised to find it returning my stare, and on every occasion, I notice that the mirror has once again chosen to wear the same clothes as I, albeit not as well or stylishly, no doubt the result of its limited sense of dimensions.
It is odd that I know so well what the mirror looks like, how it masquerades as this or that until it can no longer hope to avoid me, and yet despite its familiarity, I have no idea at all what I really look like anymore.
It should be more of a surprise, on this day that you turn ninety but the mirror, as you see it, has you looking as you did twenty two years earlier, and twenty before that, unchanging in any meaningful way, yet those around you laugh when you tell them what you believe.
Not a day over sixty-eight you say, and time to go off and write for an hour, then the three mile walk, a shower, some physical therapy for . . . well one of the joints which has osteoarthritis, and a salad, heavy on the greens for lunch.
Nothing much has changed in your mind, and when you awaken from the dream, see your sixty-eight year old face in the mirror, you only wish you could see the younger face that only dreams allow, but time outside of dreams is always, unfortunately, unforgiving.
Each morning I drag myself from bed, slowly engage my legs, and amble into the bathroom where I peer into the mirror. Each morning I am surprised that I am the same as I was they day before, and yet the mirror by all appearances, has grown another day older. It is, I suppose, the nature of mirrors to age, sadly for them, and as I turn away each morning I wish the mirror a good day, certain that it cannot help but mourn its ever increasing age.