My red hair has faded to the color of pale champagne and my once creamy complexion is embroidered all over with spots and freckles. Slender is something I suspect will be restored to me only when it no longer matters.
The bloom may be off the rose, but when I saw this picture in a magazine a dozen years ago, I recognized myself in the expression on the young woman's face and the attitude of her pause. When I read a book, I often look up between pages and paragraphs to think about what I have just read, to glance at the world, to see if what I am reading has changed the way I view it.
And the roses, climbing up over the wall to catch a glimpse of what lies on the other side: the garden, the weeds, the lone lovely girl, and the book...ah, yes, the irresistible lure of the book. One solitary bloom has lost itself, literally and literarily in the pages of the book. That is me too. The metaphorical me.
So I matted and framed the magazine page and hung it beside my desk to remind me that, even though my grandchildren do not recognize me in the photos I show them of my younger self, I am still the same girl.
Rose by Edith Prellwitz