(A repost)
Walking briskly along the path which encircles this park, I glance at the white-haired woman sitting on the bench.
Sitting slightly stooped over with age, she raises her face to watch me pass, her warm eyes twinkling in soft reflection, a radiant smile playing on her lips.
I maintain my pace, hesitating briefly to return her smile.
Her eyes reflect a look I immediately recognize.
It is the look I bestow on women younger than myself.
It is the look of fond remembrance.
She is remembering when she once briskly walked passed an old woman.
And now that old woman is she.
I look that same way at a woman with young children, holding with one hand a wandering toddler and with the other, pushing a stroller.
I too once held small hands in mine.
I look that same way at a teenaged girl, prancing in her sleek…
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margs2014 