“Was I pretty?”

Was I pretty?

It’s a question she asked a few days ago.

I guess when you’re reflecting on your life–as time lies and wrinkles twist truth and clarity–you wonder.

I hear that question and see the smile in her voice over phone calls and distance as she learns that her refrigerator prayers have lifted me out of something ugly; I hold knobby hands that have created beauty in my life and so many others; I remember the way teenage dining-hall employees drop trays and tasks to come hug the lady that makes them feel like they’re going somewhere.

My Gam is beautiful.

I guess the way I’d answer that question is a little different then what she’s really asking–which is a ‘yes’, too.

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