I was absolutely sure Jesus would come back before 1969. Everything I learned from my classmates of all sixty-nine meant assured the return of Christ before humanity had to endure the shame of entering that awful year on the calendar.
I am twenty years older than my mother was when she died of cancer. I am seven years older than my father was when he died of cancer.
I don’t feel old. Sometimes.
I look in the mirror and the one I see is different than me. That guy has wrinkles. Lots of wrinkles. His ears are almost flappy. Two people left their skin under his chin. He has a few strands of white on top, more on the sides. There’s a scar on his head. Skin cancer removed. One eye is more squinty than the other. Now a drooping eyelid makes it smaller.
His eyebrows have taken on a life of their own. “Reach for the stars!” is their motto.
The hair that was once on his head now lives in his ears.
A broad chest now rests on his belt.
He looks different, but I feel the same. Mostly.