Evidence

I found it in the mirror, one strand

stiff and gray against the rest.

I pulled it out and held it in my hand,

this small proof of time, this test

of something. I waited to feel the weight

people talk about, the rupture,

the moment where you understand your fate,

but there was just this—one stiff sculpture

of age I could let fall.

I searched for others anyway,

scanning the temple, the crown, the hall

of my hair, but there was just the one gray

strand. So I let it spiral

down into the sink and watched it go,

the mirror still showing me vital,

still me, the same face I know,

except now I knew something it didn't.

Now there was a before.

Now there was proof, but it

barely registered. Just one hair less, nothing more.