My body tells a story.
Every scar, every wrinkle, every stretch mark, every tattoo, every gray hair,
Reminds me of who I am and where I have come from.
It tells me that once I was a daredevil on roller skates and a bike,
That I have laughed millions of times, and that my face has been salted by tears.
It shows the marks of a mother’s love;
one whom I have had the pleasure of loving intensely and close-up,
and another from far away who will never understand the limits of my love.
See my love for nature, and my birthplace, and one of the most beautiful flowers I know because of its wildness and simplicity?
And my longing for water because it soothes the turbulence in me?
See my desire for flight from all that binds my soul? My longing to cast off others’ ideas about me and my quest to be beautiful in my own right and to love freely?
My need to feel balance in my life which seems so off-kilter at times because of my intense passions?
Oh, and there’s that graying hair,
Peeking through the fiery red I have applied which represents my personality so well.
I will never let the world see my true age, at least in my hair, because I feel younger than my 43 years.
Do you see my story?
It sings my song. . . .
**I came across this while I was digging through files in my computer today in search of tax information. In another month I will be 45. I have more wrinkles. I have more scars. I have more gray hair; which I now attempt to cover with something besides the fiery red. My body still sings my song. Nothing will silence it, but in the end it’s just a house. A house for my soul, which is the most beautiful part of me.