Experience
Sitting in a rocking chair, by his windowsill, was a man of ninety years, his house high upon a hill.
His face was expressionless, his skin as white as death, the house so cold that when you spoke, you could see your breath.
His face was wrinkled dreadfully, as shrivelled as a prune, each line told a different tale, of what he had been through.
Some were from his serving years, - he was in World War Two, all the strain and strife he had endured, the enemies he slew.
Some were from more happy years, - when he met his wife, the times they shared; all etched there, mapping out his life.
The road leads on and you can see paths leading different ways, some are strong, showing confidence in choices that he made.
He sees himself, in the faces of his children as they grow, but they don't yet have experience to make all those lines show.
Now reflecting in the mirror, an older man he sees, feeling life's completed and memories come with ease.
