Women sit or move to and from, some old, some young, the young are beautiful--but the old are more beautiful than the young.

I am anticipating a visit from my mother. It's been over three months since I've seen her and that's three months too long.

When she's here, we'll enjoy haunting Fritz's and Bourdon's, local rummage stores, long talks about light fixtures and paint colors, and the U.S. premier of Season Four of Doctor Who.

That's not what I'm pining over, though.

I felt oddly affectionate towards our friend's significant other tonight at dinner, when I considered the wrinkes around her neck. Missing mom, I mused.

Missing mom pulling her glasses up on her head so she can read the menu. Missing the smell of Pleasures when I hug her neck. Missing her kind, honest laugh when we tease her about age or housekeeping. Missing the chance to rub her feet while she reads a magazine. Missing snuggling up to her before I go to bed.

Wrinkles. Near-sightedness. Humility. Sore feet. Generosity of spirit.

Age.

I treasure the imperfections and improvements 55 years of living has produced in my mother. Remembering how she looked before she covered her grey is almost impossible. She must grieve this, but I don't. I think I just realized, it, too; looking at my new friend's neck!

Surely aging is something to be grasped, not merely endured! O that I and all the women of my generation would stop dreading what is simply beauty transformed; beauty realized.

O for jowels and wrinkles galore--if they mean wisdom and compassion and modesty.

I ask you: Who is more interesting? Kirsten Dunst or Dame Judi Dench? Olympia Dukakis or Natalie Portman? Maggie Thatcher or Kiera Knightly?

Whitman was right.

The old are more beautiful than the young.