By Andrea McGraw 
This body created life. Housed it, nurtured it into being.
It nourished those lives and brought comfort when the world was too new to fathom alone.
This body held those lives close, made them feel loved. Carried them, sleeping, into the house. Carried them up stairs and over hot sand.
Held them while making dinner, because being a room away was too far, and growing up is hard.
This body dispensed hugs and boo boo kisses on demand.
These arms provided shelter from the world outside of them. A chance to recharge and re-center before heading back out into it.
This face gave out reassuring smiles that told them they could do it. That they weren’t alone. That I was there.
These hands made crafts, cookies, and meals in an ever-ongoing attempt to nourish their bodies and souls.
These eyes read a million stories; launching a million adventures to be had side-by-side.
This voice sang them to sleep and spoke love into their ears, where it would take root and spread, sprouting confidence and self-worth along its path.
This body is softer, bigger, older than it was.
It bears war stripes earned with each life it created.
Sagging skin where it grew to accommodate those lives, only to deflate uselessly afterward.
There are valleys where a lifetime of joy and devastation has left etchings on this face, like a river cutting through the hardest rock.
If my 22-year-old self were to look at this body, knowing nothing of the lives it has lived, she would see nothing good.
But now, looking at this body through wiser eyes, I will try to see nothing bad.
by Laura Blucker 
by Caroline Murray 
