Laugh Lines

My mother sat small in her chair as Hospice gently explained the support they will provide as we walk this path together. In one section of one of the myraid of forms, she was asked her age. Seventy nine, she answered. I saw her countenance change and her face draw into what I could not help but articulate in words. 'How'd THAT happen?' I exclaimed, and we all laughed!

That's really how it is, you know. What seems like infinite time when we sit cross legged in the sun playing Fish or Sir Hinkle Finiduster, during endless summer days of swimming and mosquito bites, and leisure time of learning how to shave our legs and wear stockings, is the blink of an eye.

The face reflected back at me is what I have gradually come to know as it has weathered and changed. To her, it is barely recognizable as the girl she knows herself to be.

The girl I am is here, too, as I study my reflection. I lean forward and draw my skin smooth. My mind jumps to staccato memories of finding a live lobster in the sink in the kitchen; my first love, first real job, first graduation, first home; catching a fish, horseback riding, scubadiving and snorkeling, kayaking, riding in a hot air balloon and playing a Native American drum, mothering. I close my eyes and feel all the hugs through the years of people long gone. Like the whip of a tail, life spins us around and snaps us ahead of ourselves.

I watch my mother's face come alive: her blue eyes sparkle as her face draws into well traveled laugh lines. She's earned these, I think: life has etched these, piled up moments of celebration and tenderness. She has lived.