Her face, though growing old, was carved of those sturdy lines of convention—the kind you see in diplomats’ wives or on the reconstructed faces of retired beauty queens.

She had given up on herself a long time ago.

She was settling into her wrinkles, growing fond of them. They reminded her of her late husband, the fish market manager with the red beard, and of the moment she knew she would marry him. Of her children and of her children’s children. Her wrinkles, a reminder of the years that she’d spent crafting paper playthings with her daughters, sending mobiles and ambitions up to the heavens. Embarking on trips that held their futures—all wrapped up neatly in the backseat of the blue family sedan. The trusty Plymouth Valiant. A ’68 model.

A beautifully unassuming life, now reminding her how telling it really was.

Follow Shani on Twitter @grownup_blogger

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