wrinkles

my mother stares at the mirror

lamenting her wrinkles.

she calls them 

ugly

and hides

her neck

because of them.

she wishes her face

smooth

and dreams it to be so.

funny.

because i 

can't wait for mine.

my wrinkles

my laugh lines

for my skin to grow tough

...er

because it tells the story of me.

one day i will sit 

and tell the children, 

maybe mine,

about them

and say with faraway eyes:

"this wrinkle is when i stood by jeff's bedside

praying he hadn't overdosed

praying he wouldn't give up

praying that praying meant something."

"this laugh line happened when mom danced around the kitchen with a towel and half eaten santa cookie to brahms' hungarian dance no. 5 because dad said she still had beautiful hips."

and so on

until i had named them all

all the wrinkles and lines

across the map and history of me

i would smile about meetings

and cry about passings

and love 

everything

in between

my wrinkles like badges

my lines like roses

all of it me

all of it beautiful

thinking all the while

"how wonderful to have my story on me and with me always and everywhere."