When It's All Gone
There is an old American song playing. I don't remember its name but that is not necessary. I have aged. There are wrinkles burrowing in on my forehead. Cracks are pushing away from my lips like new small rivers. My face is losing something and I want to say that thing is called youth. A girl has just asked me my name and I can see in the way her eyes smiled that it was a genuine question. I humor her and then think of all the names I have come to know. The many faces they carry alongside. I then think of growing old as a beautiful trick. One moment closer to death. Another second closer to knowing it all. For if there is something 'true' to know, only when it's all gone can we know everything there is to know. I remember the name of the song now, but a new one has started. Indeed, it all is such a beautiful trick.