I was going through some paperwork the other week when I came across a drawing that my grandson had done about twenty five years ago. It was a portrait of me, with curly hair and a pleasant face with fine wriggly lines.
At the bottom of the drawing he had written, “I love my Nana she has lots of crinkles.”
It was a special drawing for grandmothers on Mother’s day.
I remember how pleased he was when he handed me the portrait, I also remember feeling a bit put out about the ‘crinkles’. I was a good grandmother and thanked him for the wonderful drawing.
It all seemed so long ago and I thought to myself I probably have even more crinkles now.
I took the paper into the bathroom and looked in the mirror at my face. I still didn’t think that I had as many ‘crinkles’ as he had drawn. As I looked at my reflection, my mind went back to my grandmother, she had ‘crinkles’ too.
I loved my grandmother, she was my best friend. The more I thought about her and the special things we shared, I remembered a beautiful lady and to me, the ‘crinkles’ were of no importance.
As I looked back at my reflection, I saw a grandmother looking back at me; I guess that is what happens when you get to my age. (After all nobody used the word wrinkles.)
My grandson is a thirty-five year old man now, and we are good friends. He tells me how lovely I look when I am with him, so I guess my crinkles are of no importance to him either.
I thought about the special bond that I have with my children and my grandchildren. I realised how blessed I am. They love me for who I am not what I look like and they certainly keep me young at heart.
I looked at the portrait of me and I thought about all the elderly women in this world and I hoped that they too will have someone who loves them, crinkles and all.