Everyone was well enough to go to the game today. Baseball season has started again, along with track, which is a new sport this year. I watched the first game from afar again this year, not because I couldn’t be close to people or walk to the bleachers, but because I wanted to sit by the tree. Last year the kids had gotten me a rocking lawn chair for mother’s day, so I bought that along with a school book to read.

I read for about two hours with the sun on my face. A few times when I picked up my phone to text my tired husband from across the field, I’d catch a glimpse of my reflection in the screen. About a year after we moved here, I started to notice a line on my face, the kind that shows up between the eyebrows. For three years I noticed it anytime I looked in the mirror. The one got worse and other nearby lines appeared.

I still notice it, and saw the lines again today. For the first several years I’d see myself and think, “This isn’t my face.” It bothered me that my life was now being worn for all to see. My husband’s and I’s facial lines match each other’s, something that quiets me but also makes me sad. He says he can’t see mine, even up close, though there is no mistaking mine or his. In the shadows, when the light beams from the side, in brighter sun, when we’re sitting at the table eating dinner, it’s who we are. This is our face now.