Dear Mom,

Thank you for the spine you gave me, the spine that holds me tall and proud.

Thank you for the hands you gave me, the hands that caress myself, and those I love. The same hands that ball into fists to fight back when I must, that catch blisters from the work that I do, the work ethic I inherited from you.

Thank you for the brown eyes that let me see the world from the perspective of an ant. Everything is bigger than me, but with time and effort, I can build my own empire.

Thank you for stomach you gave me, the stomach that holds the intestinal fortitude that my dad fed me as a child.

Thank you for my crooked nose and misplaced freckles, constellations under my eyes that no one could ever map, constellations on my nose far greater than the astronomers of the past could have ever predicted.

Thank you for the lips you gave me, that let kind words slip past, that defend myself when others doubt me.

All of these have been passed from woman to woman, unfolding generations of maternal lineage. Cheekbones and dimples passed down, stubbornness and fierceness learned from our past experiences combined through past lives. Fists and arms clenched and ready to stand the ground defended through roots deep in the earth blossoming into the family tree that has grown since our ancestors planted the seeds so long ago. The only rings worn are those gained from age and experience, stretch marks gained from growth, scars gained saplings, wrinkles earned from smiling.

Dear Mom,

Thank you, for including me in this line.