I don’t want to be that woman. The one with harsh lines created by hard living. The one who falls asleep each night, grateful to have survived. The one who sees only today and the tasks that must be accomplished.
I want to be the woman who ages seamlessly. Her lines accent her face and reflect character. The crinkles around her eyes come from laughter, not harsh years of toiling. Her dimples have deepened from sharing joy. Her faded eyes still reflect dreams.
I stare at the mountain snow, falling, falling, dancing with the wind. I curse it as it silently builds one flake at a time, knowing I’m being summoned like a servant to a cruel and fickle master.
Roofs shoveled. Firewood split and hauled inside. A house to kept heated in the midst of a frigid winter. My life has become about today and surviving, not about the potential of tomorrow.
I stare at my reflection caught in the glass and see a woman aging, fighting to hold onto her youth, and her dreams. A cold wind lifts the snow, sending it swirling into the window, obliterating my view.
Damn this mountain snow and what it demands I become.