Wrinkles. I trace the feathery lines beneath my fingertips in wonder, the soft feel of age strangely distant because of its impossibility. She sleeps, the familiar face frowning in her dreams, hand uncurling submissively before my inquisition. The pale fragility of her fingers shocks me because my mother's strength is no longer visible in the sedated throes of advancing age. Time is foreign to me, the vaguest suspicions of it formed by the minuet motions of the clock, which always seems somehow uneven in relation to the expanses traveled within my mind. But in this moment, I feel time beneath my fingertips and the worn patience of her skin is somehow foreboding because of it. The bright threads of my future expand before me with intoxicating vibrancy and the thought that hers do not extend quite as far is unforgivable. Irrevocable. I feel time in her wrinkles.

Television. It sparkles before the receptivity of my mind, imprinting images of supreme happiness in the maturation of the feminine beauty, of size twos and double ds, of youth as a state of godhood and age as one of incubation. Glamorous in their stupidity, the divine princesses down alcohol in the desperate search to find the fount of youth between glasses. Men smile at them indulgently, eyes heavy with something I do not understand but instinctively recognize, and I decide that I, too, will be glamorous.

Alcohol. Sometimes it shimmers with a thick welcoming froth, others with a clear sensibility. When I dive beneath its surfaces, I find I am beautiful. More often, I believe I am worthy of attentions bestowed on me. It occurred to me years ago that I would never fit my ideals as nature afforded me the heavier passage of weight. But when I slip into this lackadaisical paradise of drought, encouraged beyond judgment by the wave of media that ruled my tender years, I find for the first time satisfaction in the face that greets me from the mirror. Simpering in my reflection, I wave and smile back at the stumbling coquette who regards me with drunken humor.

Mornings. They are not good for me. The crashing of my previous confidence is hard and hallow in the loneliness of my apartment. There is no one to distract me from the failings of my present state, the lines of mascara running from my eyes to my chin in ugly rivulets. The stereotypes of poverty stare at me from the trash on my floor and the dirt in my grout despite the knowledge of my sustenance. I loathe how I glory in the lack of food in the fridge despite the hunger in the pit of my stomach growling constantly but the evidence of my fat is enough to still my fork. I'm getting too old for this, I think, and the thought chills me. Time is still unforgivable.

Depression. It swallows me into a cool dark place. I curl at its feet obediently and feel tears distantly brush another’s cheek. I am in a place where my bottle is always empty and my face sags. My body thins in my melancholy and I feel a hard kind of joy. School is a fragile mask for my darkness. Friends watch me with a lingering disappointment and I stare back at them with all the depths of my desolation. It's hard to find the ground again, after I've been floating for so long, but I do.

Work. The silk of my blouse feels good against my skin as I move with projected occupation. I wear pencil skirts and charcoal colors with all the refined elegance of movie stars. My hair sits in a low bun, little Chinese sticks poking my neck with pleasing severity. The role I play is well practiced and easily effective. Satisfaction glows green as my pockets expand. Words come faster than meaning. Hurry now, age approaches.

Marriage. Its fast and happy. He smiles at me from the altar and I smile back. Simple and pure, golden and brilliant. Soft rays of joy distract me from the time passing by and it occurs to me that I should never have learned it passes at all. When he holds my hand its hard to remember the reason I rush. We met at work, and I was as bedazzled by the precise edges of his suit as he was by mine. It was so effortlessly easy, falling in love. I've never really tried before. Marriage suits me, I think.

Pain. It rips from my stomach and emerges in the form of a squalling, crying beast. Oh, a demon I love, my first baby girl. I cuddle her to my breast and watch her sterling serenity and wish her everything I could ever give. It'll never be enough, everything I own and more, it’ll never be enough.

Wrinkles. She pets them when I’m sleeping, thinking I don't notice the gentle caresses of her tiny fingers. Her eyes are wide with wonder as she inspects these curious indentations on my skin, not knowing their purpose. As she gets older I see the connections in her eyes and tone, the reverence of her touch lost into terror. I turn from her, the barest suggestions of my wakefulness forcing her dancing feet away, backwards. My fears spiral in the anxious purity of her eyes but my mother always told me we looked alike, anyways. Like mother like daughter, she creeps away from my sleeping form, already doubting her trembling youth.