Those are not flaws. They make you only more you.

I have a fascination with birthmarks. There is something about them that is absolutely beautiful to me. I'm at a loss to pinpoint what exactly is so intriguing about them. It may be because it's like a plot twist of the body or an unexpected surprise. It may be because they remind me just how much of a patchwork quilt we all are. Or it may be because in a subtle way they challenge airbrushed ideals. Not in a hostile way, but rather in a standing-at-a-distance-smiling-and-waving kind of way. I must admit, my feelings have not always been this way toward my well-known friend, melatonin. As a child, bold brown freckles covered my entire face. They demanded (unwanted) attention and were far bolder than the timid girl that stood behind them. I remember not being overly fond of them, except when I was at my cousin's grandmother's house (my cousin's grandmother on her dad's side. But wouldn't that be funny if I referred to my own grandmother that way? Moving on). She liked me a whole lot and held my freckles in high esteem. She would compliment me on them (as if I had some hand in it) every time I went to her house. Her own girlhood freckles had since faded into aging spots, but somehow that created some kind of continuity between us. For her sake, I was glad I was freckled. There, at her house, I was overly fond of them. Maybe that's why I like birthmarks now, because Yolande thought freckles were special.


I have a two-freckled constellation that sits on the crater of my hip, a brown butterfly that rests on my shoulder and a coffee-stained ankle bone.