Lauren came in from the outdoors with a handful of wildflowers. Strands of dark hair escaped her braid and curled around her rosy cheeks. Exquisite. She and the wildflowers. She found a slender vase and arranged the blossoms. They bring springtime beauty to the kitchen.
I’ve arrived at the place where torch is passed from mother to daughter. Lauren grows more beautiful each day. Tall, straight and willowy. Her peaches and cream complexion and long dark lashes unspoiled by time or cosmetics. I watch her become what I have been, with wonder, and regret.
The flowers on the kitchen table are lovely, but not like yesterday. They droop a bit and their colors are muted and I see myself in their fading. I look in the mirror and note the handiwork of Time, an unhurried, deliberate, cruel artist. I fight back with colors and creams and while they ease his harsh etching, they do not erase. Time is relentless and he will remain industrious until he claims the whole of me. For this I mourn. I know that on the other side of glory, I will be made whole and new and more wondrous than I have ever been, but still, I am a short-sighted creature. Like Lot’s wife, I look back and remember and grasp for what was.