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The memory makers of life

Let the lines on my face be the memory markers of belly laughs and smiles at my babies’ first words (Broom!), and happy, drunken nights with friends, and angry looks at my husband, and worries about the kids and the job and the traffic and the bills and the weather and whether I will get enough rest to be up again tomorrow to fight the battles the day will bring… Let the brown spots above my left brow be the memory markers of that time in Tijuana, before the kids, before all the big worries, when we were free and took the rented Pathfinder illegally over the border and hung on the beach sans sunblock because our cares were only in each other… Let the new gray hairs be the memory markers of enormous stress when my son was kicked in the belly at wrestling and we spent the night at the ER worried sick and the feeling of enormous love and affection for this kind sweet handsome boy and praying, praying that he would be okay. Let the not so white teeth be the memory markers of glass cups of coffee that my husband and I make for each other every morning, our one tradition that we now have for years, before the day starts and the kids wake up, extra cream and no sugar always for him, and the everchanging mine with stevia sometimes, or agave or coconut creamer or regular, will he get it right, and yes he gets it right, every time. Let the stretched skin on my belly be a memory marker of what it means to be a mother, of having that abundant womb filled with miracles over and over again, feeling the flutters of first movements inside it, hearing the music of that first heartbeat (is it fast or slow, boy or girl?), late nights of contractions, is it coming, are you sure, do we go yet, let’s go…My memory markers I am told are signs of aging, that I need to fix, cover, dye, whiten, tighten, erase, firm, remove, renew…and yet they make me who I am, they are proof that aging is beautiful, natural and life itself.