It is 4 o clock in the morning.

There is no filter in this dingy dorm bathroom,

just the flickering light of poorly distributed funds

in the shade of flourescent yellow.

When I look in the mirror,

I see

bags clinging to the edges my eyelids,

stress-enabled acne, creating hills and valleys

deep enough to carve permanent anxiety into my face.

I am so caught up in these flaws,

that I forget why I came in here in the first place.

Suddenly, I wish I could tap a filter on

and tilt my head to the side at a 27-degree angle

and smile as if it'll make it all fade away.

 

But something catches my attention.

It is the two wide, almond-shaped eyes,

staring back at me from the reflection.

Images of the last 20 years flicker in those irises,

and I am suddenly taken back to Inglewood,

sitting on my mom's bed with her

while she's braiding my hair.

I was facing her so she could braid the front,

and her eyes were just so focused,

as if the world depended on my nappy hair

being braided correctly.

But despite the severity, the intensity,

there was such warmth in those brown eyes of hers.

I wished I could be wrapped in that warmth forever.

 

And as I stare at my own eyes in the mirror,

I could feel my wary heart squeezing.

These eyes were a gift from her to me.

 

There are several other gifts to see.

There's a cut on my upper right thigh,

from shaving my legs while half-asleep.

My thick eyebrows are a gift from my father,

and my aversion to plucking them,

a gift from the time I tried

and plucked off skin instead.

My lips, from my African ancestors,

and the large cheeks that are revealed when I grin,

from the Cherokee tribe,

and still only a fraction of the size of my sister's cheeks

when she stuffed her face at last year's Thanksgiving dinner.

 

These gifts,

these moments  and memories

engraved onto my body,

go deeper than the flaws.

I am so proud of these gifts.

I can't find them anywhere

in the selection of filters and editing options

offered to me with every update on Instagram.

 

But I digress...

I still don't remember why I'm in the bathroom,

or the nightmare that woke me out of my sleep

in the first place.

It doesn't matter anymore,

I've found what I needed in order to go back to sleep.