I’m reading a poem by Jim Daniels called “Cosmetic”.  In the poem his mother who’s had good vision for 75 years and is now legally blind has had eyebrows tattooed above her eyes.  She wants to know how they look. He realizes he could tell her anything.

He continues,  “she’s rounding everything off into simple shapes”.  

At my age, almost seventy, I am grateful for each moment and what I’m able to do.  I recognize the gift of being able to sharpen an eyebrow pencil and draw on brows, but what about when I can’t.  Will I simply keep my bangs long, or will I be as I was when I went through chemotherapy, an open lake?

And are eyebrows what we see when we look at another, or is it energy and enthusiasm pouring through, an inner light, as though we look into a cave, and see, yes, there is light.  There is light.  

Light



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