The Old Man in the Mirror

Who is this old man looking back at me from inside my mirror? From where did he come? Where is he going? He seems nice enough. We wash our face, brush our teeth and comb what hair we have together. We've both got pony tails, but I think his looks better than mine. What happened to the others?

Several weeks ago - it might have been a month or so. I lose track of time - there was a boy in there. I don't think I've ever seen anyone so anxious to grow up. Me? I'm a Peter Pan. I wish I'd told him to relax and enjoy being a kid, but I didn't. The strange thing I remember about that boy were his two passions - the arts and outdoors. Wouldn't you think they'd almost conflict? They didn't seem to for him. I don't know what became of him. I haven't seen him for a while.

Oh, yes. Then there was the soldier. I really felt sorry for him. You could see the sadness in his eyes. I don't know what he would have said if I had had a chance to talk to him, but I could tell he didn't want to be a soldier. His eyes were sad. Sometimes they were angry. But mostly they were sad. I bet he would have told me that he didn't have any choice. What do you think? Do you think young men really want to go off and kill other young men? My father used to say that war is just the final argument of old statemen. We could probably put an end to war if you made them do the fighting and leave the young people out of it. I don't even like killing insects. The last I saw of him he had taken off the uniform and was wearing a morning suit. He was getting married. He looked so happy. He looked so much better.

Then there was this young Irish man who showed up. He must have felt on top of the world. He'd stand across from me in his homemade Irish wool suit so full of life and hope, getting ready to go into college. He must have been a graduate student. I'd seem him in my mirror in the middle of the night with a book in his hand looking so tired he could hardly stand up. There was a family in his life. Sometimes, when I'd see him brushing his teeth, I could see children in the background. I don't know where he went. A few weeks ago he just disappeared.

After that there was a gentleman in a suit and tie. That man must have owned one of every French-cuff shirt in the country and enough ties that he could go for months without ever wearing one twice. I had to laugh at that. Unlike the Irish lad, this man's family was grown. That's the only reason I can see for young adults to be moving around behind a man looking into his bathroom mirror. He seemed like a pretty happy man, but every once and a while I'd catch him looking over at a bed where someone way lying. There was a deep sadness and pain in his eyes. I can't remember ever seeing pain like that. One day he was crying. The bed was empty. Then he was gone. 

That was just the other day. Now here's this old man. Who is he? What's his story? He's really a bit funny. I never know what he's going to be wearing. One time he's dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, then he's wearing something you'd expect to find in the back woods. He must be an old hippie with his earring and pony tail. It always makes me smile. He seems quite happy. He must be primping for a lady since I see him at the mirror more often. His eyes say he's happy but if you look closely you still see some pain as though he's learned to live with it and make the best. When I watch him he seems to be filled with hope and full of adventure, but what kind of hope and adventure is there for an old man? What makes a person old?

Who is this man? What's his story? How did he get so old?  Ah, he's dressed for another adventure and wearing a stocking cap with writing on it. If I look closely I can read it.  "Some day I won't be able to do this," it says. "But that day isn't today."