When I was young, I knew every mark and scar.
I’d report them to my mother, who thought
the mental catalog of my skin was strange.
But how much I learned to see from the study of it:
The thick, chubby skin of my baby daughter’s arms and how
my grandfather fell the first time he came to see her,
the leathery skin of his own arms tearing,
separating as easily as the membrane on an unstirred pot.
My own skin, now with spots of white and the
seasoning left by too many years chasing sun.
A visible vein, the silvery split of a stretchmark, bruises that
waste no time seeping up and smearing the surface with
everywhere I have been.
Brandy Wilkinson is a writer living in Indiana with her husband, their children, some motorcycles and one elderly dog. Her work has appeared online at Mothers Always Write and Silver Birch Press. She also reads and writes at brandywilkinson.com.