That was me, once. And in twenty more years, I will run a photo of myself taken today and I will say, That was me, once. Why does it take twenty years to appreciate the way we once were? Why can't we see ourselves with those future eyes, tender and forgiving, today? I look like my mother as a young woman in this photo. Now, when I look in the mirror the visage I see is my father's. Funny how we change through the years and how long it takes to grow comfortable with each new face we wear. Some of us manage better than others, I presume, or is this struggle fairly universal?