I crawl from the comfort of my Serta mattress, stumble through the kitchen and park myself right in front of the bathroom mirror. It's my ritual these days. Eager to see what's transformed in my face through the night. Sometimes it's a small dry patch on my upper cheek, or an ingrown hair digging its way deep within [searching for the treasure of my soul maybe?]. Or sometimes it's one of those brownish moles that my grandfather used to have, and that my cousin Gordon pointed out in one of my uncles in this casual way like seeing mold on bread. Mmph, he murmered as he scanned my uncle's neck, those must hereditary.

But this morning I noticed a different biological intruder: five gray hairs growing aggressively under my chin.

Over the last seven years I've noticed a few gray babies popping up in pubic places. As well as the inside of my nose. Unseen, these things. In a way, doing me the honor of living out my youth, youthfully. But now something's changed. The window period of favoritism has expired. They must dance their dance in full and prideful spectacle. I appreciate their kindness. How they remained a secret for so long. And even though I walk the streets of a large cosmopolitian city fit as a fiddle as my Grandma used to say, these new strangers are unwilling to be strange anymore. Their agenda is clear: if I'm going to walk through life, playing fiddles with thighs hard as stone, I must carry them along with me. Because that's life, I guess. That's growth. That's understanding that everything internal must ultimately have their external dance.

Until next time,

Keith