Age's Guarantee

Her slow feet shuffled to the vanity,
approaching the glass that held her fading face.
Her hair was dusted silver with the years;
old calloused hands removed the last barrette.
Unblinking eyes observed some deepened lines
etching webs across her sagging cheeks.
The mirror lied to her again tonight:
the girl she was lay sleeping down the hall,
her daughter's girl, still young and innocent.
But here, the ripple of illuminated
red numbers focused tired eyes on Time
as carefully she sat on the featherbed
and wondered how long until the mourning. She
closed her eyes, exhausted. Memories
rushed in; the curtain wavered in response.

She dreamed of being young and running across
a hill, past thorny blackberries, trees tall
against horizons, monuments of Time.
Her skin was fresh and new. Her legs were long
and young. She ran to cherry trees and looked
for toys she'd buried long ago, but found
a mole's deserted home, collapsed in the earth.
She thought she heard a cow bell's clank, then looked,
but only found a skull beside a cedar,
half seen in the mulch of weeds and evergreen.
She faced the west as the sun began to set
behind a pine-encircled pond reflecting
shades of red. A luminescent glow
revealed a canvas tent upon the bank,
a place where she had played. Within, she saw
her sister's silhouette with beckoning
hands. Her sister said, "It's getting dark."
Reaching to grasp her hands, she saw much more
than reflections rippling off the surface.

She focused eyes as slowly the light died
on red horizons, showing her the Time.
Her ancient eyes were fixed and kissed goodbye.

-Rachel Johnson, 1995