Things leave their marks on us.
While I had a handsome baby boy in November, I still look a bit pregnant.
My Dad survived a heart attack last week but has a nasty, meaty bruise where they fed something cold and serious up to his heart.
The river where I stand looking is bare from winters aggression. I am hiking along its bank in new -and first ever - hiking shoes. I am also wearing a leopard print blouse because time spent in Paris changed me, too.
If I look handled by my last day on earth, I will rejoice for it is how it is meant to be.
That's the tragedy of a child's death, isn't it? That the possibilities of that life went unmet. No marks left on the little mind or body or heart but a very few.
My Grandparents as they passed away were weathered, hand and necks wrinkled, bodies bent. I still remember my Grandpa Gerry's eyes - they sparkled even as his face sagged.
There is a lot that a look communicates, there is a lot of wisdom that comes from life's handling.
Since I've just spent a lot of time with a newborn in the last two months, I can also testify that a new baby's eyes also communicate. Their soul's potential is peeping out at us, letting us know they are ready for life.