If you never imagined your skin to tell a story, then I am here to tell you that you have imagined wrong. As if an elaborate code, deeply engraved amidst the pores of puffy skin, it speaks its tale in the faint and hushed tone. Although the mouth and tongue can lie, wrinkles can only speak the truth… All you need to do is listen a little closer.

In mother, those soft folds are found only beneath the eye, simply the impressions of long-remembered joy. Like lines in the sand, they are the impermanent traces, glimpsed as her ivory rows are exposed inches below. The rest of her prime, porcelain face, devoid of those storytellers, glows as if illuminated by an unseen candle. A flawless façade, for if one were to glimpse down…There, the wrinkles spill their secrets. On her hands, they divulge their details of a mother who has raised sons. A labyrinth of wrinkles from clenched fists, angered by teen turmoil, but never a wide open hand to strike. Yes, that is her, the mother with the gossiping hands; but I suppose at least the hands must gossip for the tongue to remain silent.

If you were now to gaze over to the desk, you might find quite a different novel of human portrayed. Father has the face worn away by the wrinkles of stress just as the wind shaves the rock into sand. There they are, the lines constantly arching up, then down again, wrinkles in a frown. Frowning from the endless hours, poised over the keyboard, typing yet another wrinkle into his life. And yet those smiling lines what were seen in mother appear under his irises, laughing constantly at the surrounding frowns. But, unlike mother, his hands are the hands of suits and ties, hanging loosely at his sides, while his shoulders sit back in a stubborn pose. These hands do not bear the wrinkles of mothers: the fortuneteller struggles to read these hands… Yes, that is him, the father with the faded face, and corporate palms.

Knocking first, then entering the dark hovel of a teenage boy…Brother’s pale persona couples with those fluorescent folds of cellophane skin, that alabaster flesh, no wrinkles in sight. But it is merely the lack of wrinkles that says it all. No trenches or deep crevasses of tales to tell can be found. But rather, like an empty diary, it is the untold nothingness that truly tells all. As surely as his wrinkles will come, there will be an interesting story to fill those pages. Yes, that is brother, the blank book of a story yet to come.

And even now, after examining the various wrinkly landscapes of those around me, the mirror, only feet from my face, tells me nothing of my own truths. Even with the surprised look (eyebrows raised, and an assembly of wrinkles on my forehead), my wrinkles are speechless, as if someone has hit the mute button.
Like I said earlier, wrinkles can only speak the truth…And this creates a wrinkle in my thoughts… Am I listening close enough?