A Beautiful Woman

Picture by the author

At fifty-seven I found what a beautiful woman looks like. I am still grasping the marvel of it.

I grew up around many women. My mother, two grandmothers, and eights aunts were early and steady influences. One aunt was a free spirit. One rarely smiled but her hands were soft and welcoming. One sang like a songbird late into her 80’s, two had nursing careers, all volunteered in their communities. They were strong wives and opinionated mothers. I didn’t see any as beautiful, although Aunt June came close in an Audrey Hepburn fashion. She flirted with her eyes, smoked, and wore trousers that were out of place in our little prairie town.

Beautiful women were the thing of glossy magazine photos and movies. I studied their square jawlines and long, slender legs, their stunning smiles supported by straight, white teeth. Beautiful people were attractive and wealthy. They and all their friends dressed well. Men adored them.

It was at a weekend women’s retreat in a campground snuggled within massive fir and cedar trees that I discovered the beauty of women. The average age of campers was at least seventy. Of the twenty-five, I knew twenty by name and considered ten of those to be friends. Not close friends, not bosom friends as my mother would have said. But we had things in common, including this annual retreat called Eve’s Circle. Named for the first woman, of course.

The camp’s lodgings were adequate. Old cabins were unheated but featured hot showers and electricity. Narrow bunks had stained mattresses and floppy pillows that held the age-old aroma of campfires. We provided our own linens; some women were clever enough to bring their own pillows. We brought bags and boxes of groceries according to a predetermined plan and signed up for shifts of cooking and clean up in the so-called kitchen cabin that doubled as a gathering space.

I arrived early that Friday afternoon and headed to the cabin that traditionally beckoned the more spirited of the group. Last year I arrived too late to claim a bunk there; I wouldn’t make that mistake again. I was making up my bed when Margaret, the eldest of us, appeared, aided by Suzanne. I was surprised she would choose this cabin but said nothing. Margaret was ninety-one, mentally eager and emotionally confident. Her short, gray hair was an afterthought to style, but her eyes were bright with life. She carried in her left hand the plain walking stick she used for pushing and prodding and sometimes for balance. Suzanne plopped Margaret’s bedding bundle, a satchel, and miscellaneous bags onto the bed nearest mine and excused herself to unload the rest of her car. She would be staying in a different cabin but promised to check on Margaret later.

Margaret brushed off my offer to make up her bunk. Shoo! She laughed, a mirthful combination of a musical cackle and a child’s goofy giggle. I backed away and averted my eyes as best I could from her haphazard bedmaking. She fussed around, bantered with the other women who were arriving one by one, and hummed to herself. Clothes spilled out of her satchel and twice in fifteen minutes she misplaced her glasses. She sniffed noisily and wiped at her nose with a man’s handkerchief she pulled from a pocket of her baggy athletic pants.

After dinner that first evening – vegetarian chili, green salad, cornbread – we congregated into a lopsided oval around a makeshift altar where we placed tokens, mementos, or keepsakes that carried our stories. Some of the stories were spoken aloud. I was moved by what several revealed about their object and themself. We were reminded that the stories stayed in the room, but I will say that we wept at Margaret’s story about the black and white image of a young man she had set on the altar.

I slept restlessly that night, as I am inclined to do when my husband is not next to me. The mattress was lumpy, the cabin deeply dark, no city lights seeping in. Somewhere in the night I heard a body moving around. A plastic case was snapped open and closed. And again. Things rustled like someone was trying to find an item in a bag or suitcase. More clicks and snaps, then the sound of light footfalls. I heard breathing near to me and indistinguishable sounds came from the angle of the floor. I sensed that someone was crawling and decided it was Margaret. Was she ill? Did she need help? Should I ask? But I remembered her independent bedmaking and knew she would ask for help if she needed it. I feigned sleep until the room went silent.

When I woke hours later to muted, morning laughter, the first person I saw was Margaret. She was changing out of flannel pajamas, her breasts loose and long, her belly white and round. For a moment I thought to look away and spare her embarrassment, but something held me.

“Morning!” she said to my staring eyes. “Sorry if I woke you in the night. Dropped my pill case and had to crawl around to find those little critters. Got ‘em all and what fun that was.” I joined in her laughter as she dropped her breasts into the cups of a once-white bra and announced, “Voila!”

Here was a beautiful woman.

Julie Swendsen Young grew up picking wildflowers and herding cows on the North Dakota prairie. After college she moved to Portland, Oregon, where she raised a family, earned a Master of Social Work (MSW), and became a clinical social worker. She is a citizen lobbyist for early childhood investments and maternal health. Her short fiction has been published in print and online magazines and her debut novel, “Rules for Mothers” was published in April 2026.