Reflection

by Anne Writes

The son rose the same way it always does but this morning it kissed the sky like it was the first time

My skin tags and imperfections stained on my being

I’ve scrubbed but they are too stubborn, too proud, too me to ever leave

The steam from my tea rising in the air like the hymns we use to sing

My sons laughter in the other room full of mischief, full of blissful wonder

He’s inherited my sarcasm and his fathers receptiveness

Outside, the world doesn’t ask or give notice

I’ve bloomed from red dirt and white sand

Holding my space

In the mirror, the line above my brow has started to settle in like an old friend I am not ashamed of

It is the evidence that I have survived, I have loved and I have laughed

The proof I live in a body that has given life and still belongs to me

There is beauty in the stillness of the morning, the dance between the sun and the moon

The way my daughter looks at me like the reflection to the person she is becoming

Care, even quiet care, is a kind of worship

When no one and everyone is watching I dance

I sway my wide hips, arms open to the universe

Embracing the life I’ve been given and the ones taken

Isn’t that joy? The soft roar of applause when we remember we’re still here

That we are enough and have always been