I don’t mind getting old; I remember when forty seemed to be a million miles away.
I have wrinkles around my eyes. I’ve have had a lot of laughter in my life and each tiny crease is a celebration of that.
I don’t even mind the wiry grey hairs, though I confess I tweeze them out.
I know that part of getting older is accepting these. Growing old gracefully and letting it happen.
But I am vain and I tell myself that black don’t crack. And hope that that quarter of my heritage will hold back the worst of it.