I believe you, not because when I get all dressed up and feel pretty, you say it.
But rather the opposite. When I’ve been at my ugliest, you’ve meant it.
Standing in the shower, trembling from pain, unable to move.
Broken and bruised.
Stitched up and swollen.
Empty of all that made me a woman.
The tears never stopped and the humility drowned my voice.
The mirror’s reflection revealed a hideous beast of a body that replaced what once was.
I hurt. Oh, how I hurt.
I couldn’t raise my arms to wash myself, or bend over without enormous pressure bellowing toward my chest, so every day you would climb in the shower and take my hand to escort me there.
Groggy from the narcotics that dulled my balance and fueled my nausea, I could barely stand. You held me up until I felt centered enough not to fall. Taking the soap into your hands to make a lather, you gently stroked my skin and ran your fingers down my bloated broken body, tenderly touching all the bumps, the bruises, the stitches and the dried-up blood.
And while you bathed me, I moaned and cried, soaking in the warmth of the wetness and the assurance of your whispers…
“You are so beautiful.”
Over and over again.
“You are so beautiful.”
For weeks, this was our routine. For weeks, you couldn’t wait to wash me. For weeks, you would say over and over again as you bathed me…
“You are so beautiful.”
Thank you, my love, for always making me feel beautiful. You will never know the power of your words and how deep they go.
