And I use both hands to pinch and tug a little at it. I run my fingers slowly and gently over my face as I lie in bed, and it is like palm-reading. Like I can feel memories buried there, right under the surface. And I can almost make predictions and see my future. My sons' weddings and nuzzling grandbabies.
Then I close my eyes and feel the skin on my neck. It is getting small creases in it. Creases from looking up at my sons' faces. From tilting my head to the side to hear little children speak to me. From age.
My skin does not lie. It is my shell. Imperfections and all. I turn onto my side, bury that face and neck into my sleeping husband's back and drift off.