Beauty Is

"You are my long-stemmed beauty," he had said when she thanked him for the perfectly formed, red velvet rosebud. As if posing in its crystal vase, it towered above the long, green stem and fluffy fern that surrounded it.

It had not been the only time that her coffee table had been graced with such a perfect symbol of their new love. Nor was this the only way that he had of making her feel cherished and beautiful. Of course, it had been easier then to feel somewhat worthy, seeing herself through his eyes—her slender body and youthful, firm, taut skin, tanned from the summer's sun.

Thirty or so years later, it had not been so easy, as she pressed toward middle-age ("If I should live to 100, I'm just middle-aged now," she had reasoned). But as she stood in the bathroom where fluorescent lights left little room for self-deception, she was not so sure. Puffy morning eyes had no trouble seeing lines and wrinkles made deeper by years of deceptively healthy tanning. And her rounded tummy was not well disguised though wrapped beneath a bulky turkish towel.

She had thought it unfair that it now took more trips to the beauty parlor to obtain less visible results. Weekly tennis lessons produced muscles more sore than firm. And it concerned her that she had arrived at the stage of life where clothes were more often chosen for comfort than for their anticipated effect at next Saturday's party.

The architect (unquestionably young and male) who had designed the full-length mirror just outside her shower door, daily forced her to face the reality of loosening, puckered thighs, where once long firm legs had been her hallmark.

Having hurriedly turned her gaze to the vanity just above her bathroom sink, she had often felt warmed by the sight of the delicate glass vase holding a pure white rose edged in red—a favorite "Medallion" from his carefully kept rose garden. All through the summer weeks, as she had entered her bathroom each morning, a fresh rose, chosen from a variety of colors and blends, greeted the beginning of her day. Sometimes a note had leaned against the vase: "Good morning, Beautiful Woman", or "I hope you know how much you are loved today." And once near the end of the season, beside a less than perfect specimen, in his familiar broad scrawl: "There weren't any roses truly beautiful enough for you this morning." His roses were not all that he had tended with love.

She had wondered if he had not noticed her fading looks. She hoped he knew that in spite of her life-long propensity for self-doubts, he had made her feel almost lovely. She had, of course, assumed that he would always be there to offer the love and reassurance that she seemed to need. That was how it was supposed to be. She had remembered reading, "Grow old along with me, The best is yet to be," and had considered it prophetic. But sometimes prophesies fail.

Now that he was gone, she had filled her days with busyness and activities, the kind that seem to gain in importance as options become fewer. She spent less time on hair and clothes, styles and appearance, reassuring herself that inner beauty was what counted anyway, and hoped not to be lacking there.

Just this week, she had spent much of Monday delivering "Meals on Wheels" to shut-ins. And preparing the church Newsletter for mailing filled Tuesday mornings each week. Wednesday, when her young friend, Melanie, recently divorced, had invited her to go for a walk by the river, she quickly agreed, knowing that Melanie had found an understanding ear in someone who had time to listen. And since she was walking anyway, she had taken the neighbor's dog along. This would help out the pup's master who had to work very long hours away from home.

At first, she had trouble remembering what she had done on Thursday, then remembered that was the day that Lynn had called from 700 miles away, to share her problems with her Mom. It had caused her to struggle all day, wrestling with the desire to call Lynn back with suggestions and solutions. She still found it hard to trust that what she had learned through her own struggles, was equally true for her children—and that listening with love was quite enough. The best gift she could give to her beloved daughter was to allow her to learn to care for herself. Friday was her regular shopping day, with a stop at the nursing home to visit an old friend. At week's end she felt pretty good about her life. She decided there was a reason for old clichés such as its being "more blessed to give than to receive."

Still today she questioned the rather dull, hollow ache in her stomach as she stood in front of the bathroom vanity. What was going on? Certainly she was handling her life quite commendably. . . wasn't she? What more could she do? What was causing this vaguely troubling feeling? If there was a void, what was it?

Perhaps she needed a touch of frivolity in her life, she half decided. But the most daring thing she could bring to mind was to add some blue rinse to her silver hair. She doubted if that would quite do it! The thought of buying a red, red lipstick—like he'd always urged her to wear in spite of her saying it made her feel like a street-walker—brought a smile to her face.

She remembered the poem about old age giving women the right to spit and wear purple. She didn't think she'd go that far, but she was enjoying the thought—so much so that she found herself laughing at her unsuccessful efforts to think of anything very daringly frivolous. Noticing the image looking back at her in the glass, she saw a woman with soft silver curls framing a well-tanned and weathered face, set with sparkling clear eyes. Her long, slender fingers reached up to gently touch deep laugh-lines, surrounding soft smiling lips.

Then suddenly, as though remembering what was missing, she reached under the sink and groped into the back of the cabinet. Finding the dusty crystal vase, she rinsed it well, and resolutely headed out of the house, through the garage where she picked up a pair of rusty clippers, and walked briskly toward the garden.