I remember, once, how my mother told me that all human beings
are 75% water; then she led me by the hand over to the bathtub
and gently tucked my head under. My spine like the long scroll
of a seahorse, her face shimmering above me like a mirage,
as I waited to see how long I could hold my breath before surfacing,
before breaking through the cool skin of water and coming to rest
against her solid body. This is what mothers teach you. This is what
women teach you. That no matter how long you stay down,
in that dark place 543 feet down, as deep as the Marianas Trench,
you can always rise again. They were the ones who held us,
who floured their hands so many years ago when they would rather be
out on the frontlines with the men; they were the ones we ran home to
with skinned knees; they were the gifts we kept receiving,
over and over again. I come from a long line of women
with hearts that leaked like buckets of water, heart like a burning building,
heart like the ladder between that building and another,
non-flaming one. This is our history, the chain of DNA
that keeps winding and winding around our bodies,
the bodies that come in all shapes and sizes, and no matter
how many times we are told we are not beautiful,
we are, we are,
we are.
All women are.