Mirror, Mirror

Over twenty years have passed as I look into the mirror now, hardly recognizing the face I have become.  The once subtle tendrils of advancing gray hair have now completely enveloped and crowned my head in a silvery mane.  Though I am somewhat disturbed by the vision of this statue before me, with its sterling coiffure, standing stoically and motionless within the glass. I remain captivated by the eyes that betray the depths of an emotive soul, though it is carefully guarded beneath a mask of experiences.
   
I study the fine lines that cover my face, marveling at the ancient routes, which reveal the journeys of a billion smiles, sneers and grimaces as they trace their way through both my past and present.  Yet, each line remains a separate and precious moment, forever engraved upon my heart and now etched deeply upon my face, as I carry them with me into the future.

Still my eyes probe deeper, looking beneath the surface as the bellows of age fan and entreat, calling out longingly to the waning embers of my life, strengthening my will and desire, even as my youthful glow retreats.  Yet, when I look into the mirror, I feel strangely detached, as though I were viewing the placid face of an aged mannequin, retired from service and enjoying the peaceful gloom of a cluttered and dusty attic.  However, unlike the mannequin, whose cold countenance of plastic does not reveal the amber flames of a youthful fire or the white-hot brilliance of unforgotten zeal; my eyes still project this soulful youth.

I watch as a lock of gray hair falls gently across my brow and as I reach up with gnarled fingers to sweep it away, I observe how intricate threads of silver hair weave themselves wantonly through the charcoal-gray dullness of my untamed mane.  There among the keratinous filaments hangs the tapestry of my life; interwoven among its caustic strands, my story lies untold.  Though the sagas contained within each silken thread, boast of reckless youth and unrequited love, they survive as priceless jewels, among a sea of worthless gems, too valuable to ever give up.

Over the years, I have watched the tapestry change, from the simple indifference of a bluish black, to the blazing panoramas of fiery browns and reds, receding finally into the dull chaos of stormy gray.

I close my eyes imagining the tufts of silver and gray transformed into the feathers of a chieftain’s headdress, crowning my head and cascading gently down my back.  Each silken feather representing an enemy vanquished, a battle won or new riches procured.  I realize the gray remains as a symbol of my wealth both tangible and intangible.  Yet I refuse to remain austere under the weight of my experiences, their meaning and importance carried within the regal beauty of the silver and gray headdress that surrounds me.

Though some feathers represent the raucous war cries of battles passed, still others denote quieter revelations of unspoken truths but the band that holds it all together is my ever-resilient internal youth.