2 years ago
I realized, studying the body of a man that I care for, that his wrinkles and few grays and worn hands make him more precious to me. He doesn't have the innate beauty of youth anymore, but I can see the time he has lived and these marks that indicate that his existence is finite. And so the time I have to love him is a gift.
I haven't quite applied this perspective to my own aging self, but it adds some sweetness to my relationships with others.