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.

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