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...