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“I was in the prime of my time as the maiden, the magic of the middle – not yet the mother and far from the crone. My supple, small breasts were not yet deflated from years of nursing sweet babies. My strong, smooth stomach hadn’t expanded in the mysterious, magical way it would, to grow another human. My skin was yet to be speckled in white spots, ravaged by too many summers. As the years passed, my looks would fade, the lines around my eyes would grow deeper, and I would become a different kind of beautiful.” — Dana Da Silva
I was in the prime of my time as the maiden, the magic of the middle – not yet the mother and far from the crone. My supple, small breasts were not yet deflated from years of nursing sweet babies. My strong, smooth stomach hadn’t expanded in the mysterious, magical way it would, to grow another human. My skin was yet to be speckled in white spots, ravaged by too many summers. As the years passed, my looks would fade, the lines around my eyes would grow deeper, and I would become a different kind of beautiful.