I saw my grandmother today. Tall and slender, she was walking toward me with that familiar gait, a little bit wobbly, footing unsure. She held herself with a graceful posture, one that said that though she wasn’t quite sure of her worth, she was going to show up anyway. As she moved closer I had two very sudden impressions. First, it was wonderful to see her after all these years, and I was once again filled with the certainty that I was loved and unconditionally accepted. But in a split second I felt anxious and a little shocked. Looking in to the plate glass window I was walking toward, I realized that I was looking at myself. I am not 70 years old but I can see the hints, the edges of my leaf beginning to turn. I sense the wheels of time bearing down on me, steadily turning in a sweet, violent cadence that is carrying me to my mortal end.