Tuesday, August 17, 2004

My adult heart breaks with the recognition of her age as the child in me wants to pull at her skirts to look upon her as she was when I was a little girl. The tears that blur my vision smooth the deep creases in her face and leave her skin appearing as flawless as fresh cream poured into a porcelain saucer. I don't want to blink. I am not ready for her to be old.
A woman writes about the passing of the torch between mother and daughter...