Through Time

A walk through time. Simple, complex, soft, hard and so very worth it.
There’s a mirror in her mind that tells her that nothing has changed. This is the mirror she loves. The one that tells her that she is indeed forever young. For in this lovely mirror she sees the freckled face of the tomboy girl who runs the fastest and jumps the highest. She can win any race because she’s eight years old and so also are all of her opponents.
So she wins. Just like that. Easy peasy.
There in the mirror is the adolescent who resisted growing up with all of her might because she didn’t ever want to loose the race. She hadn’t realized that the race had changed. There was now a new race to be run. A race with new opponents on a different course. After some time, she realized that the whole game had been changed. She didn’t even know that she already had what it took to play. And to win. And to know how and when not to play.
Twenty or so years in, says the mirror. Easy peasy. Life goes on. To her, beauty is only found in retrospect. This mirror in her mind tells her that she is, was beautiful. In twenty five years she couldn’t see it. The young beauty in the reflection. Grace and elegance of movement come naturally, afforded by the wonder of youth for the sake of youth itself.
Thirty now, still the youth, yet with the blossoming wisdom of adulthood. The clock begins to tick, but she is deaf to the tone and the vision of the hands slowly circling round and round, for she is young and the young never notice.
A fortnight comes and goes. What is that droop in the corner of the eye in this suddenly transformed mirror. Not to be betrayed, she sees the freckles still there on her nose, reassuring, like always.
Half a century now, says the calendar. No, says the magic mind mirror. See how she swims! Only kids can do that. You’re just a kid. No kidding, she tells the mirror. And suddenly the nature of the conversation has changed. She now talks to the mirror instead of the mirror talking to her. Still, she doesn’t notice. Best not to. At least until she puts pen to paper. Then out of the blue an image strikes. There, in the corner, on that old table behind faded bric a brac, a keen eye, a framed face from her past watching all the while. The mirror has told a white lie. Only a tiny, innocent, harmless white lie.
She forgives.
With chin held high she continues
on
through time.

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