I notice that as we women age we seem to walk and stand with our feet farther and farther apart as though bracing for a severe storm.
I notice that we begin to droop, sometimes just a little, and then more and more as though it is too difficult to carry our carcass of bones ~ it becomes heavier with the years of events.
I notice that our faces are best photographed from slightly above the cheekbone to disguise our necks who’ve taken on a life of their own. They’ve become alien to us with drooping skin that imaginative children love to grab and wrangle with glee.
I notice the once colorful and high contrast of our eyes against our skin and hair has disappeared. We are monochromatic. We are one palette of all the same tones.
And our hands ~ they begin to hold each other as we age. It makes me wonder what we are holding or guarding ~ is it a barrier to outside invasion? Or a locked gate with which to hold on to memories? Or, a life-preserver to keep us afloat.
By the way, I make no apologies for aging.