Yesterday, my grandmother turned 78. As I sat beside her, listening to her animated recollections of her earlier birthdays, I could not help noticing her silver hair strands that danced to the tunes of the ceiling fan. But more than her hair strands, her wrinkled skin captivated me. I ran my fingers through those layers of life. As I passed wrinkle after wrinkle, I wondered if there lay a story behind each one. Stories that could not be shared. Stories that would not be heard.
Maybe the wrinkles signified moments that could not be gotten back. Moments that engulfed joy. Moments that contained tears. Could wrinkles be categorized as happy wrinkles and sad wrinkles? Could joy create a wrinkle? Perhaps joy that is always followed by a feeling of separation could.
Maybe the wrinkles signified places that could not be revisited. Places with walls and doors and shelves made out of memories. Places without walls and doors and shelves that opened out as an ode to nature.
Maybe the wrinkles signified people who could not be gotten back. People who are loved as if they had been a part of our past lives. People who are not-so-loved as if they had come about as a result of our past lives.
I ran my fingers through those layers of life. What did those wrinkles hide? I paid attention to her face and looking at the wrinkles that adorned her cheeks, originating below her dreamy eyes, I caught hold of an answer.
Maybe the wrinkles signified unfulfilled desires that could not be divorced.
Maybe the wrinkles signified moments that could not be gotten back. Moments that engulfed joy. Moments that contained tears. Could wrinkles be categorized as happy wrinkles and sad wrinkles? Could joy create a wrinkle? Perhaps joy that is always followed by a feeling of separation could.
Maybe the wrinkles signified places that could not be revisited. Places with walls and doors and shelves made out of memories. Places without walls and doors and shelves that opened out as an ode to nature.
Maybe the wrinkles signified people who could not be gotten back. People who are loved as if they had been a part of our past lives. People who are not-so-loved as if they had come about as a result of our past lives.
I ran my fingers through those layers of life. What did those wrinkles hide? I paid attention to her face and looking at the wrinkles that adorned her cheeks, originating below her dreamy eyes, I caught hold of an answer.
Maybe the wrinkles signified unfulfilled desires that could not be divorced.
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