Their chins held high -- shoulder blades proud and body erect they stare down anyone who looks at them askance. Their bodies are worshiped by travelers the world over but no one dares to touch them. Their marble pedestals are too high.
They've watched over centuries, seen their generous hips and comfortable bellies slip in and out of vogue but their faces show that the only opinion they care about is their sculptor...a creator who spent days and weeks defining the padding of fat on the back of their arms, preserving the softness around their chin, the extra roll just below their hip bone. They know their beauty. They've had centuries of practice yet still they've always known.
As I walk the streets and see them keeping benevolent post -- so shockingly pinch-able next to their gaunt billboard counterparts -- I begin to melt into my own body...a give-a-damn lift, an inward settling, fitting into my own skin. The bones and body and belly I've had all along but which suddenly found its place in history -- as if I've been waiting for permission to enjoy them.