Mary
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She asks me what I’m looking at and I tell her I’m looking at the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.  She asks me what I did this time where I need to compliment her to get out of trouble and we laugh like we always do.  The thing is, I really do believe she is the most beautiful woman in the world.  Would others thinks so?  Undoubtedly not.  Too thin.  Too frail. Too wrinkled. Too saggy.  Too grey.  Too old.  And too bad for them that they can’t see what I do.

Others see grey hair.  I see the luxurious chestnut locks that I ran my fingers through on our first date.  Others see wrinkled skin.  I see the smooth, unblemished cheeks that used to blush so prettily when I paid her a compliment (and sometimes still do).  Others see saggy breasts.  I see the pert little globes that always drove me wild when they pressed so enticingly against her light summer dress.  It was six or seven dates before she let me touch their soft, supple beauty and another six or seven before she let me see them without the dress but the wait was worth every minute.

Others see an old woman, thin and frail to the point of being gaunt, stooped in age and weariness.  I see the girl that I first spied at a dance who made my mouth hang open in amazement.  I see the girl that I kissed for the first time on the porch of her family’s house.  I see the girl that came to our wedding bed inexperienced and a bit shy, but very enthusiastic.  I see my comforter, counselor, and confidant, the love of my life, the mother of my children, my wife and lover, my devil and angel, my friend.   I see the most beautiful woman in the world.

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