“It’s a crack,” she says. “Not a wrinkle.”
“Or both,” I say, gently moving her hand
From my face. “Wrinkles are like cracks.”
“But how could you crack your face?”
“Laughing,” I say. “And smiling.”

(Source: “Cracked”, 40×41: Midlife Crisis Postponed)

This was an amusing, real life exchange with one of my nieces that is sandwiched roughly mid-poem. It might be the best part. Perhaps the bread and mustard need to go? I too remember touching older relatives’  wrinkles, wondering how. And why.