To the Whistling Man in the Walmart Parking Lot

Today, I noticed two new silver hairs. They thickened the streak of silver that already waves its way through my bangs. The crows feet stared at me from the mirror, along with the creases at the corners of my mouth that have introduced themselves to my reflection in the last few years.

Yesterday, my daughter held her palm against mine. "Mommy," she said, "your hand is a lot more spotted and wrinkled than mine."

Ah, the brutal honesty of the innocent.

The truth is, I haven't been aging gracefully. I've been aging, kicking, screaming, biting, and clawing my way through it. 

Tonight, I wheeled my cart of groceries through the parking lot to my minivan--my minivan that says, "Hi, I'm a mom. I'm a wife. I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I have three little troopers that sit in these three car seats several times a week and compete for who can reach the highest decibel."

Somewhere along the line, I lost track of the van and aimed for a minivan farther down the row. When I reached it, I saw the license plate, and stopped suddenly in confusion. Where was my familiar vehicle? I turned in a full circle, and then I saw it. Or him.

A man, standing beside the open door of his vehicle. His mouth reshaped itself, and a whistle split the air--a whistle that proclaimed to the parking lot: "I like the way you look."

I stared at the man, memorizing his familiar features, the way his fingers curved around the door handle, as they had done to my hand nearly ten years ago when he had slipped a ring onto the now-wrinkled finger of my left hand.

This man has watched each of my wrinkles form over the years, has combed his fingers through the silver streaks that have appeared, has found ways to say, "I love you, and you're still beautiful to me" through all ten years.

So to the whistling man in the Walmart parking lot: I love you.