an old woman dies, just shy of her ninetieth birthday. i look at the memorial photographs and am struck by how beautiful she looks. not a beauty in her youth, i remember. in fact, rather painfully plain. but the lines of the years sit well on her face and lend it a frail dignity and winsomeness that artifice could not.
seems to me that wrinkles bags infirmities and vulnerabilities can sometimes make an unexpectedly lovely package. it is bitterness insolence and hopelessness we need to guard against, who swiftly ravage any youthful comeliness.
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