You have no idea what you have done for me. Your face is still lingering in my memory.
Regal, undeniably sexy, attractive even to me, you sat at my table. Your smile was knowing, your eyes had seen much. I wanted to sit at your feet, and soak up your wisdom.
Your shoulders were held back; your head was held high. You owned the room. Your clothing was subdued, yet spoke of quality, not fads. Your hair was softly curled around your smiling face. You had nothing left to prove.
All around us, young, vibrant girls of 19, and 25, perhaps, buzzed. Their clothing was the latest fashion. Their makeup was flawless. Their figures were without a roll or stretchmark. They looked one another up, then down, comparing. They fretted, smoothed, adjusted to hide each flaw.
And you smiled at me, knowing.
We were something beyond these children.
And your smile at me was an honor.
And you changed me.
You dear woman. I love you. I wish sincerely that I had asked you for your name, for your number. But perhaps I am wrong. You have done your work, here.
And you are not alone. You are joined by others, your fellow sages, who appear to me, silently, confidently, displaying the grace that comes with age and experience. I will never look back. Like you, I will age well, like a fine, red wine. My boldness transformed to richness and complexity.
Like Sophia Loren, and other gracefully aging beauties, you have given me a reason to look forward, not back. I cannot ever be those children, again. But someday, I hope to be one of you. I am eager for that day. The day that I, like you, become regal.