Where the Silver Lives

It’s about halfway down my scalp and on the left: both a cowlick and a solitary patch of silver hair that refuses to blend with the blonde fairy.

I first noticed it when I graduated to the Dyson level of middle-aged hair frustration. An area that curled silver no matter what.

An area that refuses to parade about as a thirty-something, no matter my psyche’s insistence. An area of my body that will not submit to my mind.

It’s fairly alarming to see your child register that you’re getting older. As alarming as registering the same for yourself or your parents. Going from kids to adults when you’re fifty. That’s what good living bought us.

There was a time when I could not conceive of being my age. For three hours home driving today, I sat with it, even as my ankles swelled from the drive.

As I blew past dead fields of gold and well placed trees, I thought about how they will remain, after us. It’s all the same to the clam.

This morning I woke before my alarm not sure where I was. I took deep breaths. As I became aware, I was proud of myself for not really caring. Right now I’m concentrating more on “why” than “where.” I woke up in Arkansas, not Kansas City. I was still me, either way.

There is a patch of silver growing in me.