You ask me about the drape of a dress,
or if your shoes work with an outfit.
I can answer without looking.
I know it looks fine, great, even wonderful.
Sadly, we both know my sense of fashion
does nothing to augment yours.
It doesn’t matter my protestations,
you still have to FaceTime a daughter.

But when I tell you how good you look
you may not tell me I’m wrong.
You do not see yourself through my eyes.
I have great eyes when it comes to finding beauty.
I see the silver in your hair,
sparkling just on top of the gold.
Shimmering.
I see the blue of your eyes
in sun and shadow
on summer sand dunes
and trying to dig the car out
of deepening snow in the driveway.
I see the grace in the curve of your jaw.
I see your skin, pale and vulnerable
At the base of your neck.
I watch you examine a thing
held hard to the sunlight.
I see the intelligence of your investigation.
Lasers.
I see your butt.
Don’t ever argue with me about the glory of your ass.
I know a thing or two about
Glory.
I see your carriage,
its poise,
Its grace.
I see your smile,
its warmth,
its quickness,
its generosity.
Kindness.
I see your lips when you kiss me,
When you kiss your kids,
When you kiss your grand kids.
I see your youest you.
Your purpose.
Beauty.