~2 minutes read time

My grandma tells me that she thinks she is ugly. She tells me that she is ashamed of her graying hair, sagging face, and toothless smile. She is ashamed to be seen in public by those who used to know her. My grandma tells me that she hates looking in the mirror, that she hates the woman in the reflection. She regards the years that have taken their toll upon her facial features with horror. My grandma does not consider the fact that there is beauty in aging, she does not find the same wonder as I do in the fact that her skin has shown that she has lived. My grandma tells me that she thinks she is ugly and my heart breaks. Who told her that? I could kill them. My grandma, who believes in angels, my grandma, who mourns a childhood stolen from her, my grandma, who sets her dog’s name for all of her passwords, looks in the mirror and cries. She loathes the lips that have spoken many songs, kissed many loved ones, and framed many smiles. She scorns the wrinkled hands that have held her babies and grand babies, that have written many words, and given her the gift of touch. She is without solitude, trapped within a mind that despises itself. Who has told us that aging is a curse? Who has made wrinkles equate to prison bars and orange jumpsuits? My grandma tugs at her skin and laments its lack of recoil. She tells me she wouldn’t be so afraid of the grocery store if she could get her hair colored or a new pair of dentures. A feeling of dread begins to sink into my chest. The realization that no matter what age, I will always look into the mirror and hate what I see. Time does not absolve self loathing, perhaps even accelerates it. It’s in my blood to be bruised, generations of women who poke at their thighs and cover their mouths when they laugh flood through my fingertips. My grandma tells me that she thinks that she is ugly, and I tell her that I think that I am ugly too.