The face

That is worn out by withstand

And wrinkled beyond recognition

Is mine.

In my mind's eye it is young,

The features my mother kissed so many years ago.

The mirror tells me otherwise

And part of me wants to erase all those lines,

Wind back the clock and start again.

But there is another part that loves every single crease,

They are part of who I have become –

No longer a girl – but a mother, a grandmother.

It is the face of someone

Who has breathed, endured, adored and lamented.

I cannot change who I am

I cannot be anybody else

And this wrinkled face is part of who I am.