Lines of thought...

The following are lines of thought that I want to continue, someway, somewhere.

It occurs to me that I can no more remember when she developed this independence than I can remember when the sweet little dimples disappeared from her knuckles. "One day they'll be gone," the Olan Mills photographer had said, "and you'll have these pictures to recall those precious little dimples." She photographed my daughter with her hand on a railing and her little face leaning in--her dimply knuckles frozen in time.

I still think about that conversation and the dimples--just the other day, I wondered where they had gone. All of a sudden noticing that they had faded from her now slender hands with long fingers.

She's beautiful. She's absolutely magnificent. She's pulling into herself and folding out into this stunning young lady afraid of nothing and capable of everything.

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As he laid on his back on the floor with his eyes closed awaiting my hands to touch him, I noticed how very small his mouth is still. I could see the babe in his face and I felt such warmth as I leaned in to kiss his forehead. This son of mine--so young, so innocent and naive.

It occurs to me that I've cradled him, I've coddled him more. She only had that for so long--having to share with another the love of her mother so early. Graciously stepping aside to make room for this force of life, my son, her brother. He acts his part, this little boy.

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As I watched the movie the other night, it occurred to me that I love fine lines and wrinkles on faces. His face was carved with them and they told a story of his life. During this thought, I remembered seeing a photograph of Helen Hunt on the NPR website and the close-up revealed her own facial lines. I couldn't stop looking at her, her life was written into those lines. Why would you want to erase those? To me, it's like a passport of where you've travelled--even if you've never left.

And I know, sometimes people have to talk themselves into embracing their wrinkles--they use trite humor and sentimentality as evidence of their peace with aging. Not me. It's not about making peace, it's about earning my place, recording my moments of expression be they joy, worry, pain or remorse. My face reminds me of all the times I've smiled, cried or fretted--the lines are place markers that say insert here, she's done this before. I can't surprise my face anymore.

Now ask me how I'm embracing the gravitational pull on my boobs and there's another story. I'd never go under the knife for any bodily altercation but if there's a pill that would stick these babies back in place, I'd take it.

At the rate I'm going, these saggy sacks are going to be at my belly button in no time and it occurs to me that for all my talk of lines and stories, that's one story I don't want told thank you very much.