I have aged this year. I can see it. I look in the mirror and I see an older version of myself. The difference between age 32 and age 33 appears to be about ten years; a year that carries death on its shoulders must age faster. I sneak a glance at myself in the rear view mirror while I am driving and find youth exchanged for a stronger expression.
Someone asked me how old Shawn was when he died. “Thirty three”, I announced as if I knew this fact. He must have been thirty-three. Wasn’t he? We are the same age aren’t we? “Wait,” I corrected, “he was thirty-two.” I guess I became a year older without him; oddly more evidence that I am aging.
My eyes are sunken. They may even be a bit darker or better described as more intense. My appearance changed the day I discovered that time, age, and life does not always follow a chronological pattern. Sometimes it is possible to experience a lifetime in an instant even before life is complete. Some secrets are revealed in moments versus months and can go backward just as well as forward. And love is everlasting. I had to age to realize this. Love isn’t bound by time. Like a protective veneer layered over me, love and loss make me look different. Mostly, they make me look again.