This is Not the Story

One day,
I hope to hold my child's hands in my hands,
if I am blessed with a child,
and tell him or her
my story.

I'll whisper in my child's ear,
"this is not the story
I had planned,"
and I'll look down at those perfect fingers
in my too-old ones,
"but this is my story."

I hope that my years of growing pains,
all the pencil marks on the closet wall,
and all the growing pains that left me broken,
but somehow,
stronger,
will lead me to tell
the truth.

I hope when I tell my story
I'll have forgiven myself
for the things I cannot be,
and I hope when I tell my story
I'll love myself
for the things I am
that make me
whole.

When you ask for the first time,
I'll try my hardest to look into your eyes,
your carved fingers
held tight in mine,
and I'll try my hardest to tell you that
this is not the story
I may have written for myself,

but the author of Beauty knows far more than me,
and after all,
this is His story.

...love, anna...