Forty-five

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the same young girl. All my girl-like features have withered away along with my youthful spirit. It’s the aging that hair dye or makeup can’t even cover up. The aging of the mind. I languidly pull my dark hair into a low ponytail, examining the fresh gray hairs sprouting in. I’m living my life on repeat, like a one track record. I pour my coffee like it’s an instinct, something that I can’t live without. I’m 45 and i’m wilting. I have been many people, four to be exact. Mother, lover, daughter, and sister. I can still remember a few things about being a daughter, one thing in particular, my mother sewing my dolls. Her hands moved so gracefully with the needle, mending and fixing. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t sew back together. When she taught me to sew, my hands would move clumsily with the needle, stabbing the fabric multiple times, I couldn’t fix, only break.