I have seen in my mirror the lines of my mother’s face.
I was first told I looked like her when she was the age that I am now. I was just past 30 right then and skewed in my worries toward the shallow and small. Concerned, I made plans to stave off any lapse or decline, hoping, as one best does in youth, that I could bypass aging.
I hear it more often now. “You remind me of your mother.”
It is true. Despite my girlish intentions, the lines of my mother’s face have replicated on mine. While my hands are not nearly as small as hers, even if my eyes are blue while hers are brown, although I have a good six inches in height than does she, I remind some folks of my mother.
I am unconcerned when told of the resemblance now. In fact, it makes me smile.
I figure it may mean I am becoming a little more like her. All-round.
If indeed I look a little like her, I am content. But if I have a quarter of her strength, I am richer than Warren Buffett. If I have only a trace of the gentle kindness she is known for, I am a saint. And if ever I am measured to be half as wise and good as she, I am my mother’s daughter.
The crux of what I have learned from her is this: Be not shallow and small. Remember what matters. Fret not the small stuff. And don’t fear the wrinkles.
If I can look in the mirror at the age she is now and see reflected back a woman who has lived these things, I will be beautiful as ever I could be. Beautiful, beneath the age spots and faded eyes and the deep lines on my face.
Half as beautiful, I hope, as she will always be to me.
Written as I sat at the bedside of my mother who died January 26, 2013. She remained strong and kind and continued to teach me, till her dying day.