A Letter to My Reflection

My hair is long and untended, it reaches down my back. It is weathered, the ends frayed and broken. It is the result of decades of abuse. It has been dyed black and blue and red and brown and has been countlessly bleached into submission. It has been curled and flat ironed and twisted into buns and braids and swept back into a daily ponytail and tucked behind my ears and pulled by baby hands.

My forehead revealed the first lines. They speak of marital strife and making ends meet and of sick children. The laugh lines came next, creases around my mouth after years of hysterical, maniacal laughter. The crow's feet followed, revealing my age.

My neck is long and elegant. My shoulders are graceful, even as they curl forward from my consistent lack of attention to posture. My biceps are strong, toned from years of picking up sturdy little boys and carrying groceries. The hair on my arms is just peach fuzz, so blonde it's almost white.

My hands show the most wear. They are almost unrecognizable now, cracked and dry from laundry and dishes. The rest of my skin is soft and fair, a trait I carry over from my girlhood.

My breasts look swollen, slung low from pregnancy and nursing. The skin on my chest has been stretched so tight and thin that I can see the bright blue veins underneath the surface, pumping thick, rich blood.

My belly is round, heavy, soft like bread dough that has been pulled and kneaded. My babies lived here.

Stretch marks begin just under my ribs. They encircle my waist, run wild down into the space between my legs. They are shiny now, pearl-like, shimmery.

My legs are thick and powerful. They have carried the weight of pregnancy. They have climbed stairs, paced hallways and squatted to allow the baby's head to break through.

This body, it has never failed me. It has rewarded me, four times, with new life, healthy and pure.

I cannot hate a body that has served me well.

There is nothing here to regret.


Rae