Faceless in the Crowd

Somebody asked to see a picture of my father the other day. The only one I could find was a dog-eared and almost totally faded black and white. He was with his brother, his three cousins, and his uncle. The photo was a blur of bright white smiles and thick dark hair and odd skinny ties. Particular features were hard to decipher; only the bald uncle stood out from the crowd.

To the untrained eye, that is. To me, my father’s face jumped off the ancient page in sharp focus, even though I had not known him when he was that young. I had never struggled to pick my father’s face out in a crowd, no matter how dense. His presence always announced itself to me in sharp clarity, called out to me in a stage whisper meant only for me. Everything else evaporated from view, and I felt safe.

As I get older, I sense that I am becoming invisible, at least to the untrained eye. Nobody looks up when I walk into a room, at least not intentionally. If I hear a construction worker whistle, I am offended, not because the whistle itself causes me to feel demeaned and marginalized, but because the whistle is not meant for me. I think about possible self-improvements, ways to change things up a bit. As I have been told on the tennis court many times, if something isn’t working, do something different. Wise words, at least when it comes to tennis.

Wise, too, when it comes to living, but maybe my appearance is not what needs changing. To be sure, with gravity putting the finishing touches on the ongoing metamorphosis set in motion by widening crow’s feet and plummeting estrogen levels, I am up to my ears in sartorial change. Attempts at reversal can backfire. Attempts at a complete change of direction can be absurd. Just look at Bruce Jenner.

At least my kids can still recognize me. Come to think of it, no matter what kind of toll age takes between visits, I can almost detect that spark of recognition in their eyes, and maybe even a tiny sense of relief that I am still there.  For at least a moment, maybe, everything else evaporates. Their appearances, like mine, continue to change, and our relationships with each other continue to evolve. Some things change, and some things stay exactly the same. Predictability can be comforting.

When I arrive in New York City today, I will peer anxiously into the waiting crowd until I spot my mother. As I always could with my father, I can spot her a mile away. Within minutes, no doubt, I will be snapping at her, muttering petty frustrations under my breath. Still, I will feel that sense of relief when I see that she is still here, and I will be grateful that I can celebrate her eighty-fourth birthday with her.

The dog-eared old picture of my father before I knew him conjures up vivid images of the man I always knew. The sight of my tiny, aging mother waving me in at LaGuardia will conjure up vivid images of the gorgeous and larger than life woman she always will be. Everything else evaporates.