"This is new", I thought, the first time I really looked at myself after Gabriel's death.

I had wrinkle's already, those fine lines that you get from squinting into the sun and smiling. And I was content with those. I was content with lines that told the story of someone who spent time outside, someone who gardened, and ages ago and time away spent time out-of-doors. Content with a face that showed others I liked to smile.

But this furrow on my brow? It speaks of confusion and sorrow and depletion of soul. It speaks of sadness and lament and pain.

I looked at Mr. Spit's face the other night, in the light of our bedside lamps, and I saw a tiredness, a loneliness, more lines than before. I saw a face that looked not older, and not old, but careworn. A face that spoke of going through hell. Of being lost in the wilderness. Of feeling more pain than any person should have to bear. A face that was not weather-worn, but life-worn. I saw lines marked Gabriel and sorrow. Lines etched in when he held up his wife, as the world around us told him that he didn't matter, and father's don't grieve their dead children. I saw lines that came from loving me beyond all comprehension, lines that came because he could not fix this sorrow that came upon us.

Our wedding picture is on my desk. I am looking at us. Seven years ago, young, innocent, joyous. And parts of the joy are still there. To lie next to my husband at night is to perform a re-charge of sorts. To be with him, to have him home and next to me, is to fill something in me. To recharge a part of my spirit, my soul. It is to be joined to someone, to give and draw strength from someone.

You look at this person, this person you have pledged forever too, this person who has always been there, this person who guards and holds your heart. You look at yourself in the mirror, and you see a different woman. And when you look into his face, and you see an older, sadder person, you begin to realize, that baby loss, the loss of your child, the death of that which you created together, those lines, they run very deep.

And you realize that those lines and cracks entered your soul and your marriage, those places where you hurt, and those times that you did not respond in love, but rather held on to your grief - holding it in front of you. You begin to explore those lines when you realize that you grieve a baby in your arms, and he grieves a son, a person to be a father too, to teach about wood and cars and sports, and in doing so, to teach honour and integrity and gentleness and family history. To teach what it means to be a man, and how you do it.

And you look at the lines on his face, and you follow them with your eyes and your heart, and you realize, these lines are deep. And they tell a story. Of a set of parents with no child, with a marriage that has grown stronger in tragedy. The lines lead you to a couple who can do anything together. The lines lead you not to a belief of the fundamental goodness in the world, but a belief that together, there is no path you cannot walk.

Wrinkles are far deeper than lines.