acceptance

She looks at herself in the mirror. Studies herself. Every Saturday morning she takes stock, always when she first arises, before gravity gets the better of things. She will be 50 in two days. She wrinkles her nose at the thought, at her image, but only half-heartedly. She still likes what she sees. Her shoulders still have carriage. Her breasts sag only a bit and, somehow, lustily. Her hips still command space rather than flood it. Thighs, ok. Legs – check. She wouldn’t change a thing, now, and how nice that feels, to accept oneself. It wasn’t always so.