This body may never win the Miss America pageant, but she is a winner in the way she keeps illness at bay, how she can shop for hours, how her forehead lours when the brain wanders as it ponders something ridiculous. She is meticulous in moving to beats, in craving eats that meet her dietary needs, in the way she feeds the cats twice daily, scoops the boxes, humming gaily as she takes on each new task. No, she never asked why I hated her for years, abused her amid fears she was grotesque instead of rubenesque, that her secrets might spring free and their weight kill me. By her I’ve been forgiven. Now to enjoy living in this body who sings and whose laughter rings throughout the room, allowing contentment to bloom. Not everyone admires her, some would brand her cur as though subjective standards somehow should matter. But she knows her worth, and rebuffs them with mirth.