"Where did these come from?" she asks me, looking at her hands that are mottled brown, then shoves them towards me to see too.
"I'm not sure, I guess just old age Mrs. Smith," I reply.
"I'm not old until I look in the mirror!" she says.
I nod. I agree.
"Who IS that strange person peering back at me in the mirror? Certainly can't be the person I feel on the inside," goes the inner conversation in my head.
Is it comforting to know that this weird dichotomy doesn't change even when we are 95 years old?
Today, as I sigh and comb my hair and stare into this mirror, I think this IS comforting.
Because some day, I will look into the mirror and wish not for 18 years old again, I will wish for 46 years old again. And that is TODAY.