When the last guy I dated called me beautiful I told him say it once you know me. Not the girl with beauty marks on her face, nor the girl with a sizable chest poked out an hour-glass frame. I am not. Just. That. Call me beautiful with honesty burrowed in your baritone, with time invested to learn what makes me chuckle and sob , evolve and self-destruct amidst the days—these inscrutable tomorrows to which— I often wake not having a clue where I’m going. But I can tell you a thing or two about beauty.
Beauty is the fresh taste of crisp winter tickled in my lungs seconds out a cold twenty-four where wind stings red printed smacks on my cheeks I am alive I feel a shiver prick the out-of-reach places on my neck a cotton scarf is unable to touch like history or future and I hear high-pitched giggles that swells my insides with joy as I gaze at the mini replica of me zippered in a pink onesy, she says the word MOM delivered sometimes in long-winded versions echoed down the halls of our five leveled home encircled by an even bigger world eager to puncture holes on bright windows of innocence and it’s always difficult to swallow so I grin instead when she chooses to read the book in her hand over Nickelodeon or the soothing way she pets our Yorkie or offers to wash the dishes as I peel the day off my shoulders in preparation for more layers to return but hope for the sun’s arrival to watch the ice sleeved on the tall maples, watch them glisten golden, gaze the bright sheet of snow peaked on mountain tops etched in the horizon, taste the sweetness of hazelnut coffee, feel the warmth from a hug or the pleasantry in a smile.
That guy I dated for a VERY brief period did not understand my definition of beauty. The final word he called me was crazy.
I suppose there is that . . .