Count back from there

Mirrored eyes gaze at flesh face.

I see dark hair arranged with punctilious care. I see skin stretched tightly over bone and collagen, like smooth plains and low, rolling hills. I see red, round lips stretch and press the cheeks into smooth dunes and deeps vales.

I see arms, clothed in a summery, monochromatic tan, with taunt skin over confident muscles. I see curves, and even I, with my personal paralyzing pessimism, know their worth when sheathed in silk or jean or candlelight. I see legs I can rely on, and I know what it is to revel in their strength and endurance.

I see my body, firm and young and capable. I know the mountains it can summit, the rivers it can swim, the desire it can kindle, and the life it can build.

I close my eyes. Inner eye sees future face.

I see hair, coarse curls and white. I see skin with lines as numerous as its years, eroded into crests and canyons, with deep ravines around the eyes and mouth. A face that has transmuted from smooth, bucolic hills and dales to Asian steppes and Rifi peaks.

I see the soft puddle of life under the chin, the crimped curve of the spine, and arms whose muscles have receded, but whose skin has not. I see legs that betray and a stick in the hand for their moments of infidelity and days of painful perfidy.

I see her walk instead of run, swim in still pools instead of swift currents, count down instead of up. I look into my future face, like an old friend I can't wait to meet, and wonder how we'll get along when we are finally coalesced. I ask what gift I can give her, what offertory she would treasure most, on the day I become her, and she looks into her heart to see what sort of bequeathals I have left there. Of all the words in the world, all the desires of the heart, all the virtues one may wish to cultivate, she only asks for one: kindness.

I open my eyes and turn away from the mirror; I must get started right away preparing her gift.