While getting ready for work recently, I pinched the underside of my chin. I have no memory of why I did this, but what happened subsequently is branded in my brain: the skin hung there for a long moment before finally (grudgingly I think) returning my neck to it’s original form. I cannot unsee the Janet Reno-worthy wattle that hung there, will soon always hang there, as parts of my body continue to migrate south without so much as a courtesy note – ‘excuse the mess and unpleasantness while Leah morphs into a white-haired raisin with chin hair.’
I am sure the wattle can be explained by science or genetics or hormones or my refusal to pay more than ten dollars for a bottle of face cream, but maybe…
…the skin is stretched and saggy from all the single-mom years when I carried keys or my phone under my chin, my hands clutching the hands of my children, or groceries, or an ill-fated umbrella that will flip inside out at the first gust of wind. Or…
….it is slack from all the time I spent bending my head over a sleeping baby to smell the magic and promise of her scent. Or perhaps….
….it is the cumulative effect off all the times I’ve walked with my head down in shame or sorrow or shyness and then jerked it back up when my Dad’s admonition to never hang my head suddenly came to mind. Or….
….maybe it’s from craning my neck at the hospital to peer through the speck of glass not covered by the sign that says ‘no visitors beyond this point’ , hoping for a glimpse of my son who is in agony on the other side, because even in those moments I am certain that if he can just see me, or I him, we will be ok. Or…
….it could be from the myriad times I’ve thrown my head back in laughter, so blessed have I been with parents and friends and family who will wrestle humor out of the the most improbable sources. Or…
…it might be from craning my neck to eavesdrop on a group of good friends slinging trash-talk at each other in such a practiced way they can only be the kind of friends who have walked through joy and tragedy and fear together, the kind of friendships I long for but can’t quite bring myself to form. Or….
….possibly (and I hope this is it), it is from all the times I have bent my head in prayer and gratitude for the life I’ve been given and the people I’ve gotten to travel it with.
Unlike Nora Ephron, I will not feel bad about my neck. It is the field map of my life, each crevice representing a blessing or an overcoming or an act of love.
The Bonus Room 