by Nathalie Boisard-Beudin
You were so beautiful in so many ways. Everything in you spoke of a rich and lusty life, of history both sweet and bitter, of a soul that was so uniquely yours: a symphony of love tattooed over my heart. Every wrinkle on your face spoke of a smile or a tear, every gray or white hair on your head hid a memory of days lived to the brim, every curve of your body telling of your appetite for life and love for laughter. But somehow you came to despise these treasures; they had been declared unfashionable and, in a day of self-doubt, you abandoned yourself into the hands of smooth surgeons to did away with all this lovely background, carving you to stricter and more widely acceptable standards, ironing out the stories from your face. Likewise, your hair was dyed a rich chestnut sported by a famous model but that had little to do with the real homely taste of you. Thus you became a puppet without history, a blank slate polished by human hands, a flavorless dish and a mere shadow of the glorious – if somewhat rumpled - woman I once loved.
Nathalie Boisard-Beudin, author of For the Love of Roses, is French but currently lives in Rome, Italy. Most of her writing is done in English, her second – and working – language. She works as in-house lawyer for the European Space Agency and has published micro-stories in the multi national anthology Wonderful World of Worders.