Dear Body,
You’ve been my closest friend, my longest home. Each part of you. Do you remember?
Feet. You’ve stood for the right, in times when all you wanted was to run. Running, don’t even get me started. You’ve guided on this trip for miles and sweaty miles.
Legs. You climbed the crabapple trees at Blue Park. Slender but forceful. “Spaghetti legs,” they used to call you. When did it become weak to walk lightly? It never did, as you kicked away your resentment in the salty, crisp Atlantic.
Belly. You’ve digested each experience. Every single one. The backyard trampoline. The Suzuki driving away as you were dropped off at school. Winning the spelling bee. The first piece of ten-egg dream cake. The violation. The deaths. Meeting him at the lake for the very first time. The icy morning fruit and midnight slice of pepperoni and jalapeno pizza.
Lungs. You’ve breathed new air to cleanse the dust and dirt out of me. You saved my life at the swimming pool when I was five. You lost yourself momentarily after that kiss. Could I blame you? You came right back. You always come right back. Sorry for the occasional puff.
Heart. Oh, heart. Omnipotent engine. Treasurer of treasures. Shattered or abandoned, inside or out, you repair. How do you do it? By blood. By tenderness. By compassion. By love. To witness you is to witness an act of god. Your mother, the stranger on the street, your six-year-old self. One simple act, humanity rings in again.
Shoulders. You carry the world. Your heritage, your stress, your responsibilities, deep in the grains of your muscles. When the sun kisses you, sometimes too long, the weight dissipates.
Arms. How many souls have you embraced? Grocery bags? Bouquets? Books? Babies? Bins of tee shirts and focaccia?
Hands. Tools. Kneading the soft Italian bread dough for the family party. Jotting that perfect line down in a housecleaning frenzy. Clicking the keys to make words appear on a screen into a dimension that never makes sense. Celebrators. Snagging that last vanilla doughnut on Saturday morning. Cheering to your best friend’s marriage with dry red in a crystal glass. Assurers. Intertwining yours with his as he sits beside you at the table, the movies, your favorite Mexican restaurant.
Head. Somehow, without physicality, you’ve gotten the hardest job. Perhaps, the best as well? You’ve started the war and ended it with peace. You’ve overworked yourself then recalled what rest was. You’ve rained and then flourished. You dream. You remember. You cherish. Every intake, every memory, every word, begins with you. You’ve protected me and empowered me. We’re always working on you.
Dear Body,
Even when I’ve not treated you so, you’re a miracle beyond miracles. My longest friend. My living art. I promise to nurture you. Celebrate you. Live you out authentically. It’s an honor to have you.
Thank you.
Jacob
