I trace the blue veins on her hands
like skinny rivers protruding from the crevices of her skin
This pattern of flesh is reflected in her face;
in her bony arms.;
in her delicate hands.
These wrinkles don’t tell me about the arthritis,
or about the pain of tumors in her breasts.
They take both of us on trips:
back to her standing on her parents’ doorstep-
Coming home for vacation from college.
Being on her tiptoes-
to reach the lips of her first kiss.
She cradles her firstborn child
and shares an appreciative moment
in the arms of her lover.
My fingers chase her wrinkles
as she shares the experiences which define her very existence.
All the memoires that have carried her to this elderly state.
Each of her wrinkles is unique;
each has a voice-
and a story to share.
They are beautiful-
she is beautiful.