Old wisdom says our faces are a gift until we’re thirty, then we each become the author of our own. To shift and lift by artificial means appeals to some, but as for me, I’ll go au naturel. The story that’s unfolding on my mug is published line by line in runes that spell long-overdue contentment, with a shrug of bittersweet remorse for punctuation. Each burst of joy and melancholy sigh converge in symmetry on my creation for all to see. It’s written on the fly.
The looking glass reveals a creaseless brow transposed against her face to disabuse the notion she is aging. Truth subdues the vision. Like her hair, her youth somehow is running down the bathtub drain, and now her bearing and behavior (like her shoes) are sensible. “The mirror is a ruse,” she sighs. “I’m just an old contented cow.”
She’d planned on parachuting once, immune to gravity. (Weak ankles redefined the plan.) At times she cocks her head, intent on hearing fragments of an uncaught tune that blink and fade like fireflies in her mind. She can’t remember how the lyrics went.
2001 Mary Boren
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