scar

At first I lie there on my back, one leg bent, foot propped on the inside knee of the other leg. Horizontal tree pose. Sprawled enough to dip into the loveliness of fresh sheets, that enveloping, familiar heaviness of bed that you don't grow to appreciate until you grow to appreciate other grown-up things like capers and gorgonzola and beer.

Just before sleep, I curl up in a ball, left arm around, palm cupping the right shoulder, the right arm crossed to cup the left shoulder. A protective knot. I wake up that way.

Poor body. Poor faulted, unappreciated thing, host to this ungrateful creature. Ungrateful like you, I bet. You don't notice your body unless it makes you miserable and when it does, you curse it. It smarts and stings and aches for no good reason. It declines, reminding you of inevitable things. You lose that subtle elasticity you didn't know you had (until it began its lostness). Feet grow wooly and gnarly in that way we swore they never would, and the heart too, and the mind.

From when we're young, we abuse our bodies. We deny them sustenance, care, worship. We insist our bodies owe us something. Functionality, at least, if not attractiveness, svelte lines, pleasing heft over unpleasing heft.

But it's magic. All of it.

Even the heft you diagnose, in your arrogance, as unpleasing. Here is where I fail. Here is where I was not enough. Am not enough. And you grab it, a fistful of evidence, hating it. Sometimes hating it righteously, on behalf of the other soul or souls it failed in addition to your own.

Try, every step: thank you. Every scent and stretch and touch and yank and knock and growl: thank you.

What a miracle, that I can see you. That I can see the boy who can't.

For me, today is of endings and loss and hateful grabs. So tell me about your body. Then tell me again from an angle you don't occupy enough.