The doctors scraped my mothers skin for hours until the cancer was gone. It wasn’t actually her skin, it was my grandfather’s, she says our skin comes from him. She says she needs to get a wig. I want to study the shape of her skull, to lather something soothing there and whisper sweet nothings to the sloughing cells left behind.

Later I behold this body, “mine”? I study my skin cells to see who they belong to, to find evidence of our belonging. I do not see myself, rather each feature an inheritance in motion. My mothers face, my fathers nose and feet. My aunt’s breasts and hips, my grandfather’s skin, my grandmother’s steadiness. I am a mosaic of my relative’s design.

This smirking mouth may not be mine but the sensations are. I plan to take these heirlooms for a ride they will never forget. I will fill them with pleasure and love and play and joy. I will not be afraid of wearing them out, or breaking them in, or taking it easy. I will rub them down with tears mixed with wildflower honey sweetness, exalted.

I imagine the day my son will look and find some of these same features in his reflection, perhaps well worn, certainly well loved, dutifully attended. I imagine they orient him to stories worth remembering, worthy of new chapters. Perhaps we are not mosaics, but constellations. Twinkling memories of stars, guiding our children’s children home long after we have gone.

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