Imperfection to Delight

I examine the bruises on my legs as if I’m looking at a damaged apple. They always seem to appear and I never know why or how. It runs in my family I guess, my mom and sister always seem to have the same problem. I used to stand in front of the mirror and cringe at the yellowish blotches and scars that coated my pale skin, dreading the hot days when I couldn’t wear long pants to cover them. However, more recently I’ve been trying to find the beauty in them. I look at the scar on my wrist and remember being 3 years old in Tahoe putting my palms on the glass in front of the fireplace and getting 3rd degree burns. It makes me laugh now, as I hear my family telling stories of me walking into the hospital waiting room with little mittens on. I look to my left hand and see a little scar on the inside of my ring finger, remembering the time at camp where I slid my fingers across the wood and got over 15 splinters (not my proudest moment) and had to have my mom pick each one out individually. Reminiscing about these experiences while staring at my reflection I notice a smile begin to spread across my face. I scan my body once more and imagine the marks as landmarks of my life, reminders of how far I’ve come and the blank canvas that awaits as I continue my journey. Now, as I inspect my bruises and scars I see stories instead of flaws and memories instead of imperfections.

anonymous

POETRY