This morning, after our walk, Mom was telling me family stories about when she was a little girl. Of course, she had my rapt attention. I registered the sparkle in her dark brown eyes and the animation in her expression as she recounted tales of Meemo and Grandpa as young parents. And I noticed, once again, the lines in her face, especially the ones that frame her smile and occupy the space between her eyebrows. These are the lines I see taking residence in my own face, and I tend to regret my frequent scowling and wonder about getting Botox.
In Mom's face, though, these lines are beloved aspects. And that makes me think twice about even wanting to change time's trajectory across my face.
Instead, I'm inclined to love it.
Yep, all of it.
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