growing pretty

i remember a little girl, sitting in a grade four classroom.
eyes lowered, she sucked in her nine-year-old tummy.
pushed her glasses up her nose.
blushed with shame.
so unpretty.

i remember an eleventh-grade girl, sitting in the backseat of her friend's van.
breasts small, she noticed hair on her toes.
tucked them underneath.
blushed with shame.
so unpretty.

i remember a nineteen-year-old girl, sitting on a couch in a student lounge.
i remember a tall, dark, handsome boy going to sit beside her.
i don't remember at all how that girl looked, now.

i remember fingertip touches, cheek kisses and hard hugs good-bye.
hours on the phone, a box full of letters.
a diamond ring.
a question and a promise.

i remember a gorgeous white gown, lip kisses and no more good-byes.
golden rings.
vows before God and a church full of friends.

i remember feeling so pretty.

i remember four blue lines.
one miscarriage.
one belly, rounded three times.
three precious baby boys.
three scars, intertwined, straight across my belly.
three little stretch marks.

right over the spot i still keep trying to suck in.
but it's different, now.

now, a tall, dark, handsome man
and three short, blond, beautiful boys
will scan a crowd and burst into smile when they see me

because i am, after all, pretty.