September 15th
I peer into the mirror, examining, and wonder who the other person looking back is, this person with fine lines around his eyes and grey hairs sprouting at his temples. I am not that person. I am fresh-faced and dark-haired.
I am distracted by the glow of birthday candles flickering behind me. 40. For a moment I can think of nothing more than that number. 40.
Then I return my attention to the stranger in front of me. I don’t know him. I don’t know how he got to this point, to be standing in front of me in front of the mirror. Perhaps if I ask, he will step aside and let me see the person I was expecting to see.
I sigh. I return to the cake and my champagne that has gone flat in the glass. I must have been staring into the mirror for longer than I realized. Time does seem to pass more quickly these days.
Suddenly there is a noise behind me in the shadows. I spin around.
“Hello,” I call out thinking that maybe one of my friends has forgotten something and returned.
The silence haunts me. There is something in the room with me but I cannot see it. There are voices, faint and indistinct. I get up and walk over to the light switch. I flick it on and the room becomes bathed in brilliant light. A quick scan of the room reveals that I am alone. Why then do I still feel so uneasy?
I return to my glass of champagne and pick it up. I take a sip and screw my nose up. The bubbles have long since disappeared and the liquid is warm. Then I remember that I don’t even like champagne and that I only drank it to be sociable. I walk over to the back door, slide it open and turf the contents of my glass onto the grass outside. I slide the door shut again and jump back.
What was that I caught a glimpse of in the glass? My heart is pounding. I turn around and find that once again the room is empty. I shiver. Something is going on and I am not sure how much of it is in my head and how much is real. I check the front door and it is locked. So are all the windows. They are always locked. I lock them to keep the outside world away from my sanctuary, except locked windows and bolted doors can’t keep age at bay.
I miss my youth. Some would argue that at 40 I am still young, but it is not the same as being 24 or even 34. At 24 you can be forgiven for a lot of things. At 40 you can’t. If you could there would be no need for the hackneyed phrase “act your age.” I’d like to see the book that lists activities by age.
I return to the mirror. For some time I am lost in thought. The background begins to disappear and then so do I. When I return it is only for a moment. My face is a mass of wrinkles and I have very little hair. What hair I do have is silver. I am dressed in pale blue and white striped pajamas and I am sitting in a wheelchair.
“How are we doing today, Mr. Winters?”
I don’t recognize the voice. He is dressed in white and smiling. As I am turned around I see a room full of other old people.
“It’s your birthday. Let’s go over to the cake and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”
“Who are all these people?” I wonder, but then my mind goes again. Everything around me dissolves into nothing and I am once again sitting in front of a cake with 40 candles.
I smile.
I remember it as if it happened yesterday.