I am not quick to describe for myself whether life is this or that.
There are so many different ways to live life. Many different ways to make it your own out of something much deeper than anything that you can describe.
Sometimes you will fail. Sometimes you will succeed.
But life keeps going, almost like the dew on grass which no one knows where it comes from or what to do with it except to cut it off.
To deal with life, to stand one day naked, and look at yourself in the mirror is the real challenge in life.
I have looked at myself, looked at my face, full of dark freckles and dimples that always know when to reappear. I have paid homage to the gap between my teeth, and the moles at the back of my neck where my daddy too once had the same. Deep are the roots between us.
I have seen the flow from my hair follicles to the sole of my feet. Marveled too at the body that birthed three kings and a queen.
I remain in awe of the excess fold, all of it in the right place, all the curves too, in a way I choose to never change.
I have seen too the large mole on the top of my breast, felt a lump once that made me cry, until it wasn’t what I thought it was.
I have known deep love in this skin again, bathed it too with pink rose and vanilla again and again, that it could only be love.
I love this skin I’m in. Love too the curves of my back, the scars on my back, one the shape of a crescent moon, whose pain I’ll never forget.
I seem to forget other scars though, like the one from a broken glass on my right arm, or the one nestled on the side of my left index finger. They call it a birthmark. I call it a kiss from God.
To me, every inch of my being is a miracle. Every fold, every curve, every dark spot here and there, is truly a miracle. My legs are thick and strong, bones too, strong as a bronze. If this is what it means to be made in his image, then I am truly loved, beyond these words I use to speak of life as this or that.