Seen in the Afterglow

Aging slips in like a cat who knows the house better than you do.

Soft feet, no fanfare, yet somehow everything has been rearranged.

Once you were in color. A plum-riot, a red lipped siren, a story half-finished.

People looked and lingered; their eyes worked overtime.

Now you are the quiet between commercials.

A polite absence in the checkout line.

The world stares through you, clean as glass.

Sometimes you can laugh too loud and make the outline of yourself reappear.

Someone glances up just barely and there you are again visible in their glowing oracle of youth.

For a moment, you feel present but still a little translucent.

Not quite a ghost, not quite a memory, but still not quite all the way here.

And then comes the other kind of fading:

When you are expected to listen, nod, soothe, congratulate,

offer a clap on the back or a soft landing for their heartbreak.

You become the confessional booth without the priest,

the pep-talk machine that never runs out of quarters,

the expert in other people’s triumphs and disasters.

They tell you everything.

You tell them almost nothing, or nothing they seem to remember

because the moment you begin, someone else interrupts with a better anecdote. Or more upsetting they simply wander off in search of applause more immediate.

Being heard is not the same as being borrowed for your ears.

Invisibility has more than one outfit.

The truly odd part arrives later.

Invisibility folds into your pocket like a spare handkerchief.

Suddenly you can spy joy unobserved.

You can save your applause for only what deserves it.

You can slip past expectation, past judgment,

past the need to introduce yourself to every room.

There is a certain power in being the overlooked witness.

In choosing when to shimmer and when to recede.

In learning that being visible was never the same thing as being seen.

And sometimes, late in the day, maybe the light hits your face just right

and a stranger really sees you: not as young or old or even ageless,

but constructed of every bruise and triumph,

every costume and chorus,

And even every birthday you thought you had misplaced.

You realize then that you were never invisible.

The world just forgot how to look and how to listen long enough

for your echo to become a voice again.