Yesterday's Questions

When did that face I cherish
above all others develop those
scars of a life long lived, with both
reward and pain, albeit not in 
equal measure? Why does the pain
outweigh, if the evidence before my
eyes is not to be denied, the lovely,
lilting moments that crowded our
lives? Why does the vision of those
deeply etched furrows present as a
self-acknowledged rebuke, causing
me such exquisite anguish? Might it
be related directly to the recent
memory, just yesterday in fact,
of my angry face and shrill voice
confronting yours, puzzled and
defenceless by the onslaught
when the sudden impact of
revelation occurred?