A Wrinkle in Time

I used to be ashamed of the wrinkles on my face. Especially the big, long one right across the middle of my forehead. This deep groove, my own river of embedded worries dating as far back as first grade, has been a part of me for almost as long. A child with an ever present look of puzzlement results in – you guessed it – an adult forehead in a permanent state of furrowed ruin. Makeup pronounces it. Harsh light bounces from its depths. Vainly, I often catch myself trying to pull this wrinkle apart with my thumb and forefinger, spreading and pressing the skin forcefully.

But it’s not going anywhere. And anyway that just makes my skin break out. (You know, touching the skin on your face is a no-no, right? Will I ever learn?) I trace it with my fingernail, rocking it back and forth at its deepest millimeter, right at the center, and it almost feels as though it’s part of my skull.

Could I have been so worried all my life, to cause an actual groove in my skull? I ask myself, brow crinkled.  Damn it.  Stop that!

Too late. 

I guess the wrinkles do descend to my skull, after all. Maybe that’s where they started. From the inside out. Where all worries begin and end. 

Someone around my age told me she believes I look older than she does because I have children and she doesn’t. Perhaps. It could just be genetics. Or it could be that I sit in a beach chair without a hat, refusing to wear sunglasses or drink water. 

Or that I’ve fallen to my knees in a hospital hallway more than once, watching helplessly as my child was resuscitated through glass doors I wasn’t allowed to enter. 

Or that I’ve attempted to resuscitate him myself, finding his lips blue and forehead cold one autumn morning when I tried to awaken him. And failed. 

Perhaps these events – and countless more, both forgotten and unforgotten – have woven together across my face to form a distinctive pattern of lines and creases, the remainders of a lifetime of imperfections, efforts, concerns, sorrow and – most importantly – love. So be it. I’m not ashamed anymore. 

I saw someone fretting over some (imaginary) wrinkles in a public restroom the other day. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful, even with the wrinkles. But I guess she’s just not there yet. I walked past her as she scrutinized her face, an inch away from the mirror. Furrowing her brow. I wished for her to one day appreciate all that has made her who she is – both good and bad – right down to the lines on her face. Especially to appreciate those. 

We are fortunate to have gotten here; it is a gift. And we are beautiful, too – because of the wrinkles, not despite them.

“People are more than just the way they look.” – Madeleine L’Engle