Face

So it begins: such an insignificant thing, smaller then small, quieter then silence.
Cells dancing in darkness. Leaping to a rhythm that only they hear. Dancing to a
beat that has never been tested, a tune that has never before been heard. But all things in this world must begin small, even those that will grow to move it.

Silk smooth and womb-fresh it emerges, the months of hoping, waiting, finally adjusting themselves into one overwhelming exodus.

Here and now the light shines, here for the first and only time we see this face, incubated in darkness, bursting forth into the glorious day.
Once, and once alone will this soul greet the world, and only once will it walk it.

So small, so delicate, so tiny: a dollish copy of what will grow to be a man’s identity: The eyes, so huge and round, a baby blue the coming months will dissolve slowly into the martyrs’ grey. The wispy hair fair blonde, un-darkened by the years. Adolescence will change that; the sudden rush of hormones turning the roots to oak almost overnight, all the while stripping the face of the puppy fat and soothing oils that had so defined the child’s face. Without their influence the skin becomes a battleground, acne versus all attempts to remove it. And it is not just acne that needs to be removed, for now hair grows where there was no hair before. Should it be shaved? Or left as nature intended it to be? And what design will the longed for moustaches take? The time of change made more tumultuous by a thousand insecurities: A face is a face, unique, alone, but can its owner still belong?

Adulthood. Majority. Many cultures give such a date, and common wisdom says that all reach it, but what effect on a face? Suddenly he is a man, responsible for himself. Job, house, car, partner, family, and what relief can he have? This is his life now, the only one he has – what can he do but wait, lie dutifully by as the daily grind etches its worries, its innumerable stresses and cares onto his countenance.

Forty years of nine to five, and what remains? Nothing soft, that much is certain, those years have buffed and shaped, worn down the features, so none of the blossoming curves of youth remain. Now all is sharp, angular to the point of ugliness, each wrinkle hunted down and eliminated as a hated enemy. Face-lifts, facials, botulism toxins; no matter the technique the message is clear: The ravages of age, they are not welcome here.

Is this truly the same face? The one that emerged so soft, so gentle, so tiny, so many years ago. It seems impossible, yet now and again, for the barest of instants, it is possible to believe. The decades have not stolen everything yet, behind the heedful eyes, the personality still remains; shaped by the same acts as the face itself, but hidden, the mind behind the mask.

And still time passes, as time is want to do, seconds trickling into minutes, hours and beyond. The face moves on, buffeted by the passing days. But now things change, for the time of work is over, the time of rest has begun – the stresses, worries of the everyday, the weight of the earth has moved to younger shoulders, younger faces. The tensions of the world now carve their cares onto others, the face is free, released, at ease. Strange. He is free now. Free as a bird. Free to do as he’s always dreamed and more, and yet, and yet – here is the strangest part of all, he cannot help but feel as though there is some part of life he has missed, some critical box that hasn’t been ticked. Was it always there, this emptiness? This hole where no hole should be? In all his years, in all his struggles, had he been seeking to fill it? Or just ignore it?

Unsettled, scared even, by this sudden revelation, he seeks to fill the hours. Luncheons, charities, golf games, he runs them all with the same aplomb as the fortune 500. Making mountains out of molehills he tries to maintain a position in the world. Perhaps by filling out his time he might be able to ignore this gaping emptiness that suddenly seems to envelope his heart.

All the while the back of his head is telling him he’s turned into one of those old men who don’t know when to quit.

More surgery. A younger wife – the ultimate face-lift for the soul.

The skin stretches tighter then many would have thought possible, the face seems determined to remove every crease and wrinkle from the last forty years. Aged and worn, nothing remains of the little boy whose infant softness emerged so delicately from the womb.

Then tragedy strikes - A stroke at 73 - unexpected, but hardly unusual. Suddenly the left hand side of his face can’t maintain its muscle tone – it droops down, the surgery scars so carefully hidden under his chin now in plain sight, obvious to those who know what to look for. Wife number two leaves. Suddenly she finds his younger business partner a more interesting prospect, and who can blame her, appearances are everything and the face is not that of the man she married.

Now at last the face begins to rest, its owner finally forced to bow to the savage wolves of time that have haunted every heart beat since his birth.

Now at last the skin softens, the cheeks billow out in a twisted reminder of their infant chubbiness. The wrinkles, cracks and creases break forth once more, defying the half lifetime of attempts to conceal, the time of such prides has passed, but not the mind that spawned them.

How far the great have fallen! Once a raised eyebrow was enough to shake the business world. Now one is permanently sunk, the muscles that once held it in place atrophied into nothingness.

All his life, he’d boasted that his face had been his greatest asset. Open, engaging, confident; getting people to trust him with their secrets, their money, had been easy. Now that same face is twisted almost beyond recognition. The body that once so smoothly supported the world on its shoulders, reverts to child-like dependence; nappies and nursemaids, and hushed discussions about his welfare whispered in his presence, just beyond the range of his now defunct hearing.

He grows to hate the young, jealous of their good looks, their easy movements, the way their conversations seem so full of life and vivre. Even his grown and adored grandchildren do not escape his ire, although with them he hides it, his natural love overcoming his flickering hatred in their presence. It is only on the inside that his revulsion grows, twisting and tormenting his soul, making the inside as coarse as the outside now appears, although it is only the outside that concerns him. Using all the resources at his disposal he begs, first one surgeon, then another, to again attempt the impossible, to give him back the youth he craves. One by one he is refused; he is too old, there’s too much risk, there’s not enough to work with.

Finally, in a damp and fetid surgery, he finds one willing to attempt the impossible – no guarantees, payment up front, and by the way, just sign this paper – a standard release form, covering the unforeseen. But he agrees, desperate as he is, and lies down on the table almost at ease. Now at last he’s going to regain his looks, and everything that comes with them, independence, self-respect.

The second stroke is fatal, removing any chance of a third. And in one devastating heart beat all life, all character is gone. Now it is only the most magnificent of the morticians’ art that can return a fraction of the energy that once dwelt in the cooling flesh, but even such efforts are in vain – the candle has been extinguished, and none on earth has the power to rekindle the flame.

His funeral is well attended, everything he would have hoped for; his allies and enemies briefly uniting to layer praise on his embalmed remains. A pity he is not there to see it. There are some tears, a few embraces; not for him of course, human contact is for those who still feel it, and its’ been a while since he could be entered into that category.

The decision of burial is made without his input, if asked he would have told them he would have preferred cremation, it just seemed so much more dramatic, and he was ever one for drama – still, he never left a will, so how where they to know? Even all his years were insufficient to convince him that they would end. Perhaps he thought that if he ignored death it would pay him the same courtesy; but death proved to have a better memory then he

And so it ends as it begins, in the darkness; but not the warm flesh of a womb. Instead it is the ice cold of the grave that embraces him, holds him, as the decay that has haunted him from birth finally has its sway. The cells that danced are finally undone, the code that ran his life, was his life, slowly unravels itself. If man came from dust, then to dust it is returning. His body, his face, so important in life, only manages a few months of his death. It matters not, it is over.