As she glances in the mirror she is momentarily confronted.
What do they see, what do they see when they look at her?
For far too long she only saw the flaws, feeling they could be improved if only she just…
With age comes experience. With experience, knowledge and wisdom.
Her eyes are not just an undiscernible colour of green and hazel and grey, framed by dark, arched brows. They have drunk in the wonder and opened wide in amazement when standing over great vistas. Her eyes have searched longingly into the eyes of others, waiting for the recognition of a kindred spirit. They have glazed over with the rosy glow of incomparable love at the first glimpse of her children. Her eyes have shed many tears, tears of immense joy and tears of deep sorrow.
Yes, her lips are full and slightly pink. She is usually quick to smile; she doesn’t need to be told to do so. Her lips have quivered, ever so slightly, with the anticipation of a first kiss. They have spat words of hate, mostly regretted and then begged later for forgiveness. Her lips have spoken words of encouragement and of hope, sharing her thoughts, her ideals, and her dreams. Her lips and mouth have tasted incredible flavour as well as the sharp metallic taste of her own blood. She has whispered words of comfort to her over-tired, unwell baby before placing the most delicate of kisses goodnight.
Her arms are bronzed from the hot Australian sun, not as toned as she would hope for. But they have reached up so high, outstretched to the sky in celebration of music and good times. Her arms have toiled, strained under the weight of cases of wine while working and countless moves of furniture while trying to find her place. They have held tightly to a loved one, seeking or offering a haven, a safe place to ride out the storm. Her arms have held wriggling babies and excitable children in comfort and in play.
Her hands are soft and strong, not manicured as such but neat. They once made music, but time has blurred the precise sequence of the keys. Her hands have washed the hair of others, creating rich lathers, relaxation and escape. They have caressed the straining back of a lover, wiped away the tears of her friends, her sister and her children. Her hands are the tools she has used to create, build, apply, tear and remove.
Her torso isn’t long, her curves have begun to soften, and her waistline fluctuates in measure, but her body is a wonder in and of itself. It holds her heart, which despite everything has continued to have the capacity to grow with limitless amounts of love. Her heart feels all those intangible feelings, like love, kindness, laughter, and anger. It’s from the depths of her soul, the pit of her stomach she has pulled on her strength and her courage to face life’s obstacles. It’s where the warm bright sound of an unabashed belly laugh comes from. Her torso holds much of what defines her as a woman, according to human society. It is where she has sustained life within her womb before bringing that life into the world, one of life’s greatest miracles.
Her legs are shapely, well defined but not as long as she would like, her feet slim and steadfast. They have walked and ran and leapt and lounged. They have travelled well-worn paths and taken her places off the beaten track. Her feet have danced all night, until her legs felt about to give way, then kicked off inappropriate shoes in delighted exhaustion. Paced her carpeted room while young, and later the floorboards of her own home as an adult, waiting in anticipation of news wonderful or sad.
The entirety of these individual parts, so easy to see the flaws in them when they are disassociated from the whole, her whole self. These parts working together will carry her through life; they have made all the experiences she has already encountered possible. No there isn’t perfection there, there never was or will be. But there are stories and there will be more to come.
So what do they see? She isn’t sure, but she knows and sees it all.
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