I once looked at the curve of your thigh and remarked to my mother, “I think I’m going to have your thighs.” She shot back, “You keep eating cookies the way you do and you’ll have YOUR thighs.”
I felt awkward in you. Frustrated tears when you couldn’t jump rope in gym. Embarrassed when you wouldn’t work fast enough or coordinated enough to keep from getting picked last for the team.
Swimsuit torture. Granny breasts on a teenage form. I was ashamed of the angry red stretch marks on your upper thighs.
But, you were strong enough to grow and deliver the baby they all said you’d never make. You delivered him and quickly healed. I was so familiar with you by this point, that it was strange to me to not be able to identify all your parts. Nothing was where I had left it.
Pregnancy left more marks on you, forever banning you from being a swimsuit model. With this final scarring across your stomach, and more stretch in the breasts, I forgave your imperfections and quirks.
In the middle of the night, very unceremoniously, our last war ended with a whimper. I was tired as I walked down the hall, and the familiar script began to whisper, “Fatty …”
The words had no sting. They lost their power somewhere along the way.
You’ve done good work. You’ve carried me well these years. Let me take care of you. Let me try to build your strength and health. Rather than trying to make you be something you are not, let me finally see you are a good body, you are my good body.