Where My Body Ends and Hers Begins

My daughter turned five today, in the still, quiet hours of the morning. I held her close last night as she fell asleep, feeling her wiggle and kick as she whispered to me all the questions that come to a child only when it is time for bed. I make sure now to take every opportunity to hold her while she is still eager for it, knowing that in a few years she’ll barely remember to ask. 

Before I went to bed, I kissed her sleeping cheeks for the last time as my four year old girl, a tradition my own mother has been holding for me for as long as I can remember. I smiled and quietly wished her a happy birthday, remembering exactly where we both were five years earlier.

Then, as I was turning off the last few lights, I sat on the bathroom floor, warm in front of the still blowing heater. I held my legs up against my chest and gently kissed my knees, as tenderly as I had just kissed my daughter minutes before. I sat quietly with my body and thanked it for everything it has given me. So much joy, so many gifts. For carrying my beautiful daughters. For giving me the chance to feel my love for them in my arms, my fingers, my lap, my lips. So much bigger than just what I feel in my heart. I thanked my body for that.

I sat a few moments longer, holding my feet, one in each hand, and letting myself feel gratitude. Not as an exercise, or an expectation. I just sat and remembered all the times I had held my girls close, and the gratitude came in waves so big I was washed in them.

Love is such an interesting thing. It’s a feeling. And a bridge. And a home. Or is my body the home? Perhaps Love and my Body are the same.