I remember as a young girl watching my grandmother's skin care routine. 

I wanted her skin.  It was perfect in my eyes.  Soft, tender, with deep lines that had  witnessed her love affair with all things warm: the sun, the outdoors, exposure to the light, and to what it means to live and love.

My eyes coveted the story my grandmother's skin told.  I wanted those lines, I wanted the softness of her skin. 

I'd watch her put on her foundation, lightly covering her sunkissed cheeks and I ached to one day have that kind of skin.

I've thought about those days as of late, especially as my own skin is starting to show and tell its own story. 

The past three years have accentuated the story my face, my skin has lived.  And there is a deep and strong pull within me to want to silence the continuation of the story that is unfolding by the lines of my face.