Furrow

I love the word furrow.
It has an imagery that I adore, the lines that make up time and etch across skins and skies. To me it has a monochromatic feel to it, it sounds like a field in winter, rows of wind planted on frozen plain. A hopelessness that comes from farming frozen ground. I get cold thinking about furrow.
(I'll stop before Emilie mocks me again for too many adjectives)
As a young child my sister used to tease me about my brow; apparently I had an "unhappy" look and it bothered her. She said I looked stern and unkind. I'd furrow my brow unconsciously; it was(and is) my thinking face. It wasn't that I was unhappy or unkind, it was that I was in a different place in my head and my face didn't travel with me.
With time a line has formed regardless of expression. A small one--less than half an inch long--but a crease nonetheless, right between my eyebrows. Now it travels with me wherever I go, visible evidence of a life lived elsewhere. I like it.