Am I Pretty?

How do you answer when someone asks the question-making you swear to tell the truth-“am I pretty?”

How do you explain that there are galaxies in her eyes? Exploding canvasses of mystery and depth. Specks of stardust frozen in hand blown marbles. To stare too long is to lose oneself in wonder. 

It’s not just her delicate features, though they are pleasing to the eye. It’s not just the lily white skin so radiant the moon itself could not emulate the glow. It’s not the curve of the cheek or the shape of the brow. It’s not the design of the lips that round into a smile, or bend in sorrow. Luck of the draw features cannot define the essence of her being—the truth she demands, the justice she seeks, the pain that she carries or the love she yields. It’s not in the way her hair falls, or the color, or the style. It’s just her. It is all she is and all she will ever be.  

It’s all the words spoken and unspoken, the sound of her song in the wind, the distant look when nothing but thought and magic are carrying her. It’s the tiny shards of hope and love holding her soul together like staples when she shatters. It’s the vision of her arms wrapped around an ancient tree declaring “this is my mother”. The way she lays upon moss covered rocks, lost in thought. Having a private conversation with long lost friends.  

It’s in the way strangers exuberate when they see her, and friends look to her for guidance and comfort. It’s the sharp, unforgiving tongue that cuts the soul to the quick with whiplike thrusts. Clever words cast with precision to fell the fiercest giant. Circe’s rage followed immediately by regret. Sorrow reflecting in her eyes when reality hits off how deep the pain words and truth can cause. Wounds binding in their barbs, then unbound with tears and song when the heart softens. An apology rising first in the eyes then waiting for the heart to catch up. The same eyes that witness the spaces in between the worlds, solve the mysteries of the universe as if it were a game of chess. The same eyes that see the mesmerizing splendor of all that is around, somehow gaze in the mirror and wonder. Am I pretty?

It’s not in the clothes that she wears or shoes on her feet- mere wrappings she chooses to express or hide her passions. It’s not in a photograph or reflection in mirrored glass. No these do not- cannot — project the glow of her shield, the strength of her sword or the softness of her heart. These are but nuances that mask her force tender and fierce. So she turns to me and demands the truth, and I will try. 

My daughter. You are a hot bath filled with rose petals and jasmine. A field of fireflies on a summer night, an arrangement of notes played carefully and chaotically across strings. You are the scorching rays of sunlight in the desert and the trail of a shooting star across a midnight sky. You are the gentle waters of the river and the crashing force of the sea. You are forgiveness and patience, recklessness and rage. You are the universe, raw and untamed. You are passion and art. A string of symbols woven together with rhythm to create verse. You are time and timelessness. All my tomorrows and all my yesterdays.  

So you ask me- am I pretty?. And I am shocked by your doubt. I fumble out a yes. I mean yes, of course, but pretty is so small a definition for so great a presence. Pretty is a wildflower, or a painting, a pattern on silk. What I want to say is you are vast. You leave me breathless in your beauty. You leave me bewildered and begging for more. You are the embodiment of hope. You are all that is good and right and true. You, my darling, are beauty. Pure beauty. And you are my everything.