Gaps, patches and in-betweens

This morning, I look in the mirror and who do I see? My older self, marked with more lines Looking back at me. I try to rub one that I thought was an eyelash But it wouldn’t go away. So I check for crow’s feet, There they are, I must say, not as deep, but determined to stay.  Ya, I laugh and cry a lot, and sometimes cannot sleep Or I make up too many faces throughout the day And when I think and speak. My hair is still black, which makes me think, Maybe I should just go ahead and color it pink. I feel work pains stabbing the sides of my nape Or maybe it’s just my body telling me to get in shape. The reflection transforms into the faces of my girls Then to my partner, then of Mama and Papa; Which cross-fades to the young women I laughed with, in Montevista. It segues to the 17-year-old on the indigenous maternity bed To the things I need to do, what to write, how it should be said. The image focuses back to myself, wrinkled, almost gray...