Changing Faces

In the lonely dawn of my thirties,

I confront the mirror

and see my changing face,

my humanity, exposed to the world.

My eyes, the windows to my troubled soul.

My mouth, the gateway to my tangled mind. 

My lines etched with the stories of youth.

My age spots, the mark of my mortality.

Within my scars it is written

what has been taken from me.

My skin affirms the resurrection,

daily offering its Hail Marys,

like the stars in the sky,

destroying and birthing new worlds.

Death and rebirth.

Death and rebirth.

A little more cream, a little more birth.

A little more peel, a little more death.

A nightly baptism in red light to ensure

these pregnant cells don’t miscarry.

Because I’m not ready to let go.

I don’t know how to be a middle-aged woman,

without a marriage, children, a career.

What do you call a middle-aged woman

who is not a wife or a mother or a boss?

Nothing?

I am single and confused,

stuck in this limbo between the two halves of life,

neither young nor old,

neither ma’am nor miss.

Neither career woman nor homemaker?

I am without definition.

If I remain as I am for another decade or so,

I will be an elder, a patron,

the village auntie, then the town granny.

A truly lovely thought.

Handing out clippings from my herb garden to the patrons in the local library.

But what until then?

I used to be a wide-eyed dreamer,

on a journey of self-discovery.

Nostalgic to behold, inspiring to witness.

Now I’m half blind, dress torn and sullied,

feeling my way through this garden of lost hopes and dreams,

searching for that magical blue flower before its last petal falls.

I long to belong.

From within.

My worth inherent,

even with nothing to show for it.

No award-winning book,

no impressive bank account,

no charming house or husband or children.

Just myself, my soul, and the space I occupy.

Is that enough?

In the quiet dawn of my thirties,

I greet the mirror.

My eyes, the windows to the divinity of my soul,

not just troubled but profound, full of depth and wonder.

My mouth, the gateway through which my mind untangles

its tapestries of mysterious truths.

My lines etched with the beauty of my survival.

My age spots, not just marks, but medals of resilience.

My scars, a testament to the battles that shaped me.

My skin still sings the hymn of resurrection,

daily whispering its Hail Marys,

like the stars surrounding me.

Death and rebirth.

Death and rebirth.

Each cream, a prayer for renewal.

Each peel, a shedding of the old.

Nightly baptisms in red light nurture my cells

for there is still life within me to cherish.

I learn to embrace the limbo,

this space between the two halves of life.

I find myself, defined not by societal expectations.

I am a seeker, a dreamer still,

but also a sage in the making,

acquiring the taste of silent uncertainty.

The blue flower is not lost;

it blooms within me, vibrant and eternal.

I belong.

From within.

My worth inherent,

not measured by achievements

but by the depth of my soul

and the love that overflows from it

onto those who share the space we find ourselves in.

I am enough.

In this mirror, I will find peace.

My eyes reflect the treasure of who I was

and prophesy to the miracle I am becoming.

This is 31.