Hunk Mama lived so long birds would land on her and deer would not flee. She walked forest paths and little foxes would travel by her heels, or appear and disappear in the brush.

Her tired skin folded like great, soft, languid blankets drawn back exposing her liquid eyes. When she laughed, wrinkles that began under her chin lifted and curved around the upturned corners of her mouth, then up to tuck and fold beneath her eyes, matching, but not exactly mirroring, the wrinkles above her eyes.

If she relaxed her face, her skin hung in testimony to her years ' she looked sad. Gravity is relentless and even the mountains would come down if there were not something strong inside. Creases worn by Hunk Mama are the arroyos of many spring runoffs, and her forehead rises abruptly from the plains like Bear Butte.

Gravity and tears ' she emerged through them, and we, the young, know what will be left standing, although we haven't words for it yet.

We love her, admire her, listen to her for wisdom.

In council, she might suddenly halt our clamor for her attention and listen to her husband's quiet voice.

Thus she created him, for he was unremarkable, drab, gray, hard of hearing and dim of vision.

This papery old man, friable as a deserted nest, what is he doing here?

But Hunk Mama would cut us off to listen to him, merely because, when the world was fresh, he had begun this long, long journey with her.

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