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Looking through old notebooks I found a poem I wrote a year ago, a memorial to the girl who never got to show herself in youth. An elegy.
That poem described that girl and how beautiful she was, how she was, her confidence, her light. Last line: "I honor this ghost who lives in me."
But what I'm struck by today is how closely the description hews to how I look now, and how I feel, and how I am. That ghost is me now, in flesh; I have given her a body. I honor myself for that this day.