Who is she?

She’s looking at me, but I don’t recognize her.

Her hair is dyed black now, to conceal all the grays,

Her eyes have dark circles where she once put highlighter,

Her stomach is bigger than before but the skin is loose,

Her breast are larger but they fall lower,

Her hips are wider but unshapely,

Even her feet are bigger.

This could be her, but I don’t quite recognize her.

Her scent is sweet but also sour like old milk,

Her clothes are ragged and stained,

Her face is lined with scars of living,

But her eyes are the same familiar deep brown.

She smiles and suddenly, I know exactly what who she is.

She has aged hands because she’s provided,

She a twinkle in her eyes because she has truly been loved,

She has a worn out body because she has fiercely lived and given life,

She has lines on her face because she has found real joy.

She’s a wife,

She’s a mom of 3 young boys,

She’s a daughter and sister,

She’s a friend,

I do know her, and though she’s not the same as she used to be,

a little rougher on the edges,

I like her better now,

she knows who I am and I know who she is.

She is me.