Marks

We are marked, a fervid sun brands, icy winds score skin deep marks at least as obvious as Cain's. Every decade weathers us, our leather skived; oils desiccated into wrinkled smiles but each flaw has its roots, and each root an anchor for a climb taken. An old crone in a park, anywhere; her eyes are deep set but the blue within them is clear. Her flesh hangs on crooked bones, yet she is a vision there among the young, a message for all those who have overcome. Her grace is the grace of the withered tree that perseveres among the tall of the forest, such a presence declares the defiant youth of the undefeated. We are marked by our own rugged paths; such are both signs of arrival and survival. Each aged portrait a declaration that Cain is slain once more by a life well lived again.