I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles the years have worn in my face, the loose skin that hangs like appendages beneath my chin and the folds of flesh surrounding my eyes. Silver hair adorns my head like an unwanted old hat. The woman who stares at me from the looking glass is a stranger.
My hands, twisted with arthritis, move slowly through their tasks and my legs shuffle as I use my cane for balance. This stranger's body has betrayed me. It had once been my friend as it swung gracefully around the dance floor, ran up the stairs to a friend's house, took me canoeing and helped me win games on the tennis court. But I know, though no one else does, that a young dark-haired girl continues to reside deep within me.
That young girl can still feel the wind in her hair when she rides down Brickyard Hill on her bicycle as if it was only yesterday. Applying her brakes she comes to a screeching halt at the bottom of the hill where she quickly jumps off her bike. Although I can feel her spirit and the agility of her body as she moves, my outer shell no longer obeys my inner commands.
When I think of summers long past, I remember her excitement for the first baseball games of the season. While I sit with pain in my joints, I can still feel her sure-footed race around the bases. And when she stands ready on third base, her glove poised. I hear the 'whack' as the ball is hit and see it soar through the air. Her strong hands catch it and another one is out. The north island wins over the south again.
That young girl within me remembers many of the thoughts and wishes she had as she walked to school, thinking nothing of the three mile hike each way and proud of her ability to make it in under half an hour. She feels that no time has passed since she roamed the beach in search of the ornamental shells of the oyster and water-worn pieces of driftwood, leaping confidently from boulder to boulder. It seems that it was only yesterday she sat on the rocks and listened to the waves lap onto the shore while she watched seagulls swoop and squawk as they grabbed morsels of food from the orange beaks of the oyster catchers.
That girl is very much alive but she is locked within a body whose flesh is no longer firm or supple and whose movements are no longer quick. Her skin is smooth and her hair is shining while the stranger who is home to this girl lacks enthusiasm and exuberance.
When I was busier and more able-bodied and those around me valued what I had to offer, I saw only the young girl in the mirror but she no longer looks back at me; she's no longer seen by anyone, not even myself. But I know she's still there; I can feel her and hear her, and her thoughts are still mine. Late at night when the only light are the stars in the sky, we remember the friends we once knew. They are all gone, like the young girl in the mirror.
My own children are now getting their own wrinkles, thick waists and gray hair; they have aches and pains and health issues of their own. They spend their leisure time at the gym and take vitamins hoping to hold old age at bay. How did it happen that these children of mine look older than the girl within me feels? And my grandchildren, looking like my children did only yesterday, look at me like the stranger I am. ...
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