A woman of fifty-six found herself drifting into old age. There was nothing unusual in thisafter all, its the most ordinary thing in the world. Her time had come.
Yet, each time she glimpsed her reflection, a chill ran down her spine. Her youth seemed to vanish at a most alarming rate, as if some unseen stagehand was daubing lines of age on her face each night, a pound of times makeup heavier every dawn.
Not all that long ago, she had looked marvellousglowing, almost. As she walked past the neighbourhood benches, there sat old Mr. Arthur Bennett, come rain or shine, lifting his flat cap or tweed trilby in courtly greeting. How splendid you look! What a lovely young lady you are! he would say, a twinkle in his eye that seemed untouched by all his ninety years.
Every morning she hurried to her job, passing Arthur as he saluted her with those familiar words, and all day long, more compliments followed from colleagues and strangers alike. She truly did appear radiant.
And then, one dreary evening, she suddenly realised: she hadnt seen Mr. Bennett on his usual bench for some time. He had just vanished, as if spirited away. When she asked around, the neighbours told her kindly that Arthur had been moved to a care home. There was no one to watch over him anymore; his children had settled in other towns, and he needed help these days, someone to mind his medicine and to keep him company.
The womans thoughts, once wrapped tight in the fretful cocoon of old age, fluttered towards Arthur Bennett. She learned the address of the care home, bought some little treatsbiscuits, perhaps, and fresh fruitand rode out on a misty Sunday morning to pay a visit.
She found him in the dayroom, sitting in a comfortable armchair, contentedly spooning porridge with a nob of butter on top. When he saw her, Arthurs eyes lit with delight, and he said, My dear! How glad I am to see you! You look absolutely smashing! What a beautiful young woman you are!
And the other residents, old gentlemen with their pipes and cheery old ladies in woolly shawls, gathered round her and offered their own warm words. The woman went home that evening and peeked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes bright, her hair softly curling and lively, and if there had been wrinkles, they seemed to have retreated for now. She really was rather fetchingperhaps even younger than before. It was as if beauty and youth had slipped back in, quietly and mysteriously, like a minor everyday miracle.
After that, every Sunday became a ritual. She visited the home, helped out, and taught a bit of dancing in the communal loungefoxtrot and waltznever with the intention of chasing her own youth, but rather for the wonderful lightness it brought her heart, the gentle gratitude in their smiles. To be for someone else a daughter, a granddaughter, a friend. To be cherished in return, in that warm, honest English way: Oh, dont you look splendid!words as sincere as spring sunshine.
People are like mystical mirrors for us. Not ordinary glass, but enchanted. There are some whose company makes you bloom, leaves your step lighter and your laughter ringing; their kindness straightens your spine, brings sparkle to your eye. And otherswellcan weigh you down, leave you shrinking, hunched, and worn.
So one ought to treasure those magical mirrors, the good-hearted, genuine ones, whose praise comes not from duty but from true feeling. Especially the elderlythey are living treasures, and while they are with us, we are never too old, never beyond helping or being helped.
So thinks this woman, who found herself returned to youth and beauty by kindnessbut, more importantly, found something even finer within herself. She is entirely right.
