The beauty Inside

The elderly love me. 

      "You're so beautiful", they say.  I say "thank you" and then wonder why I always get told the same thing from the same group of people.  Why is it always the grandmas who notice my beauty and the grandpas who joke about me inviting them to my wedding?

      

       My great grandma's most recent husband always asked me if I had gotten married yet.  At the end he had dementia and it didn't matter if we'd seen each other just weeks prior, our conversation would always be the same.  He would take my hands and ask, "You haven't gotten married yet, have you?"  

       "No, not yet." I would say.  

       "You'll make sure to tell me when you do, okay?"

       "I will."  He is no longer around but I will have to let him know when I get married.  I am sure he will already see.

       A few days ago there was a 93 year old women getting her hair done while I was getting a manicure.  She said repeatedly that I was a beautiful girl and on her way out of the shop she came to me and said, "You are a very beautiful girl."

       "Thank you.", I said. 

       It is not that I don't think I'm beautiful, or that I don't think I'm goiñg to get married.  It is merely the curiosity of why the majority of people who point out my beauty are elders.

       Children are told to respect their elders because they have experienced all there is.  They have developed a wisdom all their own.  Maybe they see in my eyes the experience of someone who is far too wise for her age.  But, whatever is seen in the depths of my soul, being called beautiful is a compliment I will always appreciate. 

       "You're so beautiful.", they say.  I say, "thank you" and wonder if they can see my soul through the window. 

 

      

       

The Two Valeries

A life's story can not be told simply, as it is hard to foresee the beginning, middle, and end.  In what way should I arrange them?  How do I say everything I want to say?  I don't know… And you would think being 16, going on 17, that there wouldn't be that much to say in the first place.  But, oh, how you are wrong!  I have too much to say and even different parts to the story.  I shall tell you what is on the forefront of my mind; what is itching to be said and shared.  

       But before this great tale, I must share with you something that may be of context, and wether it pertains to what is coming next… well, that is for you to figure out as the story unfolds. 

       My father is a twin; born in the 1960s.  My father came out first and his sister, his sister had some trouble. She took her time coming into the world and because of this time taken the breath of life was delayed.  This lack of oxygen resulted in both a cognitive and physical disability. 

       The thing to do to those who were different back then, to those who used wheelchairs or anything else, was to lock them up and throw away the key.  So, my aunt grew up in an institution.  I do not know the conditions or how she was treated; I'm not sure anyone really does.  My knowledge of her story jumps from here to when she died. 

       She was only 12 years old when she had a spinal fusion, to correct scoliosis.  Something went wrong, in surgery or from infection I am not sure but she died.  At 12.  She died when she was 12 years old. 

       My father is a twin.  His sister's name was Valerie.  His sister's name is Valerie.  My father named his daughter after his sister.  My name is Valerie and it might be because of our names, but I think that mine and my aunt's stories are tied together at certain points of the string.  Whoever is reading this can figure out the similarities and differences in the knots.  The lengths, unfortunately, will be different