When you return to the town of your childhood,
the word "aged" takes on real, visual, meaning.
Neon lights still grace the movie house
where you watched Elvis strut his stuff in "Viva Las Vegas"
and couldn't wait to be old enough to sit in the balcony
(or maybe the cry room way up in the corner, where you knew the older kids were making out)...
...but they no longer shine and the ticket booth is empty.
A peek through the glass doors reveals abandoned counters and dark stairs...
...and a building becomes a mirror,
reflecting the lines on your face and gray streaks in your hair.