The Once Givenchy Body
Love Over Lotions
It’s true, thanks to the colorist, the first touch of winter’s grey has been disguised, and it’s true, too, lines are forming about the corners of her eyes, but she is a woman more beautiful than any words of love can describe.
A body no longer adorned or shaped by Givenchy. Her breasts, once firm, no longer point immodestly. Once maintained by discipline and challenging physical workouts, the curves and contours of her body are now content with long walks between the morning bath and the darkness.
In the bedroom she remains wholly who she is; a woman having done all of life’s chores, chopped, sliced, mothered, washed, dressed, grated, burned, painted, hammered, loved, lost, kicked, and cursed, and yet contrived in some God-given womanly way to be in my life as my most faithful friend; the kind of friend only the true love can support.
She is not perfect: she’s been too hot, too cold, been joyous, depressed, ill, and very ill, warmly funny, cuttingly cold, and yet on any other day sparkle like lemonade.
She has raised children, held children, lost children, and been left by children. She is the only woman I want to lie beside, content in the language of sleep or drowning in the warmth of her breasts, her body pulling me in.
