Coming out of the shower these past two mornings, I have been surprised at the woman I see in the mirror, stepping forward. She looks both younger and older than I would have expected. Her hair is dark and light in pieces. Her cheekbones are high. Her eyes are clear and black. She is calm and expectant.
You look younger now than you did then, a friend said once, looking at a photograph from when I was 22.
I believe I am aging backward. I believe each year added is taking another off of me, stripping it back until I am bare. I believe people will look back and say, she did not come into her own until she was in her thirties.
Mozart said in Amadeus: I have not even begun to touch what I am capable of.
And I believe that is true. I have to. I have an almost done novel. I have a book of poems in pieces. I have a fellowship. I have a scar. I have naturally wavy hair. I have perfect pitch.
I believe when I am at my end, at forty or fifty or eighty or when, I will finally be innocent.
You have no idea what I am capable of. Actually, you do. Always, always have.