Freckled

on self-love

The reflection in my mirror changes ever so slightly with the new season. The sun scatters fresh clusters of brown dots, darker and sharper each year, across my cheeks and along my nose bridge, bringing color to those that were hidden during the colder months. I’ve seen my face without them once; lathered on a thick layer of a sample of high-coverage foundation that didn’t match my skin tone. Not a trace of a freckle remained, not even an outline. I was bare-faced.

I had never felt so naked in my life. 

My younger self would have loved it. I used to scrub them hard with soap, but it only reddened my face and hurt my hands. In the dim bathroom light, I scrubbed away the dirty palette, the spots of imperfections. I was only 9 then, sending wishes to the stars, asking for every single one of them to be erased by the time I raised my head from the sink and looked up at myself in the mirror again. Those years I spent despising them seem like a distant memory. What once were specks of mud have now become a map of constellations that I wish upon. 

A stranger’s compliment still catches me by surprise. I didn’t get many until recent years. No, I didn’t draw them. Yes, they’re natural. But even kind words make me afraid of if, and when they will go out of style again. Like every trend has its moment, then fades away. Though if that happens, I think I would be okay this time. Freckled or not, I’m still me. 

Learning to love myself came with growing up. I’m not as carefree or naive as I once was, but even if I were given a chance, I’m not sure I would want to be a kid again.

If I could, though, I want to find the little girl and tell her she doesn’t have to scrub her face so hard. She doesn’t have to look like the models pasted on the coffee table magazines. I would trace the patterns of her freckles with my fingertips and tell her she was one lucky girl, getting all those kisses from the sun.