The cold cream, thick and white as melting meringue
smells of my grandmother and I find
I do not mind, shrugging off my old skin
and trying on a new one, even a second hand pelt.
There’s comfort in the longing and the lines to come
catching spiders webs around the eyes, the mouth.
Comfort in the grandchildren, who will one day,
rub their own faces on the cool pillows
of my cheeks. Building wrinkles of their own
with bunched fists and buttered kisses.
Jennie Owen is competition winning writer and has been widely published in anthologies, magazines, and online. She is a University Lecturer in Creative Writing and lives with her husband and their three children in Lancashire.