When I was young

...I never knew how beautiful I was. There is a picture of my golden haired cousins, my brother and me on my grandparents' steps. I always deferred to the notion that blonde equated with pretty and, hence, they must be prettier than me. They went to a country club, they lived in a big house in a posh New Jersey suburb. They went to "the city," and by that, I mean THE city, not Pittsburgh, where I grew up. But now, when I look at the photograph, it is clear to me who is the knock-out in the bunch. It's me. My dark brown eyes, my cropped hair that showed my full, old-soul face. The way I pressed my hands together in the praying pose, my willingness to look unflinchingly into the camera.

And when I was a teen, oh my how I thought I was fat. Huge maybe. Botero-like compared to the other girls. Surely no boy would like me.

But, maybe, since so many people said I looked like my mother, I was confusing my body with my mother's body. We used to go to the public pool nearly every night after dinner. I would wear my suit under my t-shirt and shorts, so that no one would see me naked, but my mom would take one of the open benches smack dab in the middle of the locker room and she would disrobe slowly, never covering up one part of her body as she tugged at her suit. She would take off all of her clothes, then yank and jump into her suit. Her white belly huge, her breasts bobbing up and down like pineapples in a tropic storm. And, God, I could see her pubic hair. Everyone could see her pubic hair.

When I was a teenager, I confused my body with her body. I thought I took up an enormous amount of space. But now, when I look back on those photographs, I was lean and athletic. Wide shouldered but nothing extra around my middle. My legs and arms were muscular. And there were my eyes. Still yearning and dark. So wise without knowing.

Now, I actually do carry my mother's belly. And her large fruit breasts. And her patch of pubic hair. She has become me, I have become her. I am not deluded in my thinking. I am not so beautiful anymore, and it would take about one hundred pounds to place me in the range of what any doctor might be willing to be called normal. Might. And I know that my face too often is scowled and my brow is too frequently furrowed. As I rush through my life, not in it, I do not look so great with he weight of responsibility bearing down upon the weight of disappointment.

Except for this. This day, not so long ago, when I wore this happy hat. In a small town where I was a stranger. In another state, just a hop away from mine. There was this day, this spark, this happiness -- all so ready to reclaim my face.

Look at me and tell me I am not beautiful.

I can be. I am. I will be. It's written in my eyes, just as it has always been.