Her index finger
mutely traces a path
along the jagged U of a
varicose vein
that decorates my thigh.
She practices counting
and connecting
the infinite beauty spots --
moles, really
not “beauty spots” --
that dot and freckle
every inch of aging skin.
She pokes and jiggles
the soft flesh
beneath my arms,
giggling as it moves
and quivers as she
molds it with her fingers.
She delights in this body
that is painted, and soft
and unpredictable
with scars and stretch marks
undulating and never smooth.
But to her it is wondrous
and perfect
and exactly the way
her mother should be.
She is too young yet
to have learned to fear
and loathe those
imperfections.
The world will teach her.
Soon. So soon.
But for now
perhaps I am old enough
for her to teach me
that I am beautiful.
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