I know I’m far from what our society considers “old”.
I’m 26…and was 21 when Michael was killed.
He was 22 when he died.
But I can’t help but despise each year that passes without him.
I remember when I surpassed him in age…and before I knew it had lived 2, 3, 4 years more then he had.
I look at the photos and see the new wrinkles and lines that he never saw.
I look at the photos and know that one day I will look far different than what I looked like when he was alive.
But as much as I despise old father time…and the wrinkles that come along with it…I love knowing I have them from the smiles I’ve been able to have since his passing…the “are you serious!?” faces I’ve made to those that were unaware of my situation…the squinting lines from all the moments I shed the layers of grief and loss from my being.
As Brandy Carlile sang her song “My Story”:
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I’ve been
And how I got to where I am
So I’ll embrace the lines….the story….the ability to create the crinkles that he never could…..and the stories I will continue to create with each new one.