Look at me. Five foot nine-and-a-half inches. Blonde. Blue-eyed. College graduate. Lived in or near Seattle since age five. Forty-five years old. Homeowner. Wife. Mother. Former Microsoft employee.
Listen to me. My losses have come in twos. Two babies. Both my breasts. Lost my brother twice – when he became mentally ill in 1983 and when he died of a prescription drug overdose in 2007.
Hear me. I’ve known pain. Beneath this smile are scars – some etched on my skin, most inscribed in my memory. Yet I love life. I keep on. Little things can still surprise me – a seed, a mite, a heartbeat, a teardrop. I take utmost care with myself, gentle beyond measure. I fold deep within, searching for the cavernous reservoir. Swimming back to my core, I draw one arm through the water, then the other. It’s quiet there and still. I float awhile, buoyed up, suspended. The water laps at my skin, soothing and cooling it with milky kisses. Will I ever yearn again for the dryness of human touch? A single peck can crack me open. So wanting to be born am I.
Can you see me now?