My mother is one of the most beautiful humans I know. And yes, I am 100% biased, but I’d bet honest money that there are those who are not biologically obligated, who would agree. My mother is stunning.
It’s mostly her smile, which takes up her whole face. Her high cheekbones and clear blue eyes certainly contribute, as do the angles of her face– that geometrically resemble those of Julie Andrews, that’s not opinion, that’s just MATH.
But I’ve noticed lately, that her smile really does take up her whole face– and with the passing years, the ripples of her smile extend ever more. The smile lines from her eyes meet the ripples of her smile, creating a symphonic smile, in stereo.
I dab cream in the corners of my eyes and smear oil on my face and neck. Decades of emotions leave their mark, each experience etched in evidence, and I remember my grandmother’s hands… spotted with age, bubbling veins betraying decades of stress, nails well kept, skin soft. I hear her saying “You don’t feel old, you feel the same, and then you look down and see your hands and wonder… how did this all happen so quickly?”
My nails remain unpolished, my hands sporadically moisturized. My grandmother’s reality still generations away. My mother’s life comes ever closer to my grasp. Not quite, never really. Owing a home? AYFKM? Not gonna happen. Three kids to college? Girl, I can’t send one kid to daycare. But the daily frustrations and requirements and impossible standards (that you somehow meet), those are familiar. I remember observing them from afar, a long, long time ago.
This is just to say.
I have loved the mother I screamed at,
That you knew deserved kinder than she got.
Forgive me. I didn’t know.
It seemed so equal. And reasonable.
Pretty Good Ugly 