There was once an Englishwoman of fifty-six years, and she began to notice the signs of age upon her. There is nothing startling in thisa perfectly natural course, for time keeps its march. Yet, as she gazed at her reflection, she could not help but shudder, for the changes came swiftly. It seemed as if, each day, her youth and beauty slipped away, as though some unseen hand applied layer upon layer of age to her features.
Not long before, she had appeared so radiant! There was an old gentleman, always seated on the bench in the small square no matter the weather, who would tip his hatand sometimes a thick tweed capand offer her a compliment: You look ever so lovely! What a beautiful lady you are!
She would pass by the frail old man, and he never failed to raise his hat, repeating, almost ritualistically, What a beautiful lady you are! She would then hurry off to work, a smile on her lips. Throughout the day, she would receive kind words from others as well, for she truly looked quite charming.
Then, one morning, she realised she had not seen the old gentleman in some time. His place on the bench remained empty. She asked the neighbours, and learned he had been moved to a care home; his family could no longer oversee his needs, with his children scattered around different cities, so they placed him in a retirement home in the countryside. He was ninety by then, and required watching-over and care.
Her thoughts turned away from her own ageing, and instead dwelled on the old gentleman, whose name, she discovered, was Mr. Francis Whitmore. She found out where he now lived, bought a basketful of treats, and visited the care home that Sunday.
To her joy, she found him safe and content, seated in a comfortable armchair, slowly eating his porridge with a dab of butter. When he saw her, Mr. Whitmores face lit up, and he exclaimed, Oh, what a joy to see you! How well you look! What a beautiful lady!
Other residents gathered round, offering their own kind remarks, praising her. Later, when she returned home and looked at her reflection, she was surprised: her cheeks glowed with fresh colour, her eyes sparkled, her hair curled and brightened, the lines in her face seemed softened. She was a handsome womanperhaps even more youthful than her years. Somehow, youth and beauty had returned. How astonishing…
That small miracle changed everything. Every Sunday, she began to visit the retirement home, volunteering her time, leading dance classes for the elderlynot for vanitys sake, but for the joy in her heart that came from helping others and bringing pleasure. It was comforting to feel, even for a short while, like someones daughter or granddaughter, and to receive such genuine warmth in return. And every week, she heard, How well you look!words spoken sincerely and from the heart.
Other people can be our mirrors. Not merely ordinary mirrors, but magical ones. An encounter with one person can lift your spirits and make you feel younger; your step lightens, your eyes gleam, your smile returns. Yet others may make you feel ancient and weary, weighed down by their presence.
So it is important to treasure the magical mirrorsthose kind, honest folk who speak goodness from their hearts. And old people especially must be cherished, for so long as we have the elderly among us, we too are not yet old. We can still help. This is what that Englishwoman, who recovered her youth and beauty, now believes. And she is absolutely right.
