I've been thinking lately how my body is a lot like my mom's body. Sturdy, and soft. My mom has always been really beautiful to me, even when, or maybe especially when I saw her in a vulnerable state, after a procedure in the hospital 2 months or so ago. She was loopy from the anesthesia and the pain killer they had given her, so that when she tried to put her shirt back on, while still holding onto the hospital gown, she couldn't manage it. "Well, there was a time that you were very familiar with my breasts." was what she said to ease my discomfort at seeing her bare skin. Even that statement is sort of beautiful to me now, as I think back on it; her lack of embarrassment in that moment, her statement of fact.
So here I am, standing in my hallway in my bathing suit, hair unwashed and matted because I haven't been able to bring myself to wash or brush it since my mother's funeral on Saturday. I've neglected, and hated, and hurt my body, i've starved it, and burned it, on purpose. But not today. My mother's body, the one that was so much like mine, the one she was so unashamed of, the one that brought me into existence, got sick and gave out, even though she took such good care of it all her life. She was beautiful to me, right to the end, and so I know I can't be ugly, because i came from her. Today I love my body.