Wabi-sabi

“Your daughter stares,” my mother whispered; as she lay naked on the bed. A smile of pleasure crossed her face while the nurse gently caressed her frail body with a soft, warm sponge. “Don’t you turn away,” sensing my discomfort. I look at the scars of birth, of falls from trees of old repairs, and new. “She is young,” I say “Scared” “Poppycock; see, she’s smiling at me,” my mother whispered; “she looks in a mirror.”