I realize I have not treated you as the temple you are. Through the years I have forced you through a rather insane existence, surviving car crashes, years of pregnancy, my forgetting to eat when I’m writing, etc.
All in all, you are pretty darn tough. In my YA manuscript The Shifter’s Ball, a 15-year-old Greek nymph has to come to terms with the fact that nymphs just don’t live very long. She experiences her father’s death (he was considered ancient at 38) and finds the love and support she needs to survive in her human friend. He has lost his dad, too, but to a suicide bomber while his dad was serving in Afghanistan. Both fathers appeared young and invincible, but both were proven to be far too fragile to survive what their bodies encountered.
This week on my tv I have watched other young, vibrant people whose bodies were torn apart by someone else’s sick plot. Much like my character Josh’s father who dies in a suicide attack on American soldiers, we have seen unspeakable damage done to healthy people in their prime. (I know I would be so ticked off at going from a marathon runner’s physical condition to recovering in a hospital because of someone’s sick views on the world.) It is hard to lose anyone we love, but it seems so much harder to lose someone that is vital and beautiful one moment and gone the next.
In short, My Body, I want to thank you for still working great, not needing an extensive overhaul, and being reliable. I am grateful for the 41 years I have gotten out of you and wish all those we lose at a younger age could see 41 and beyond. And thank you for being healthy enough to keep my brain going. If I can keep getting stories out of my head, you just keep plugging along. Deal?