Skin I'M In Part Three

I remember my father’s skin scarcely wrinkled as he approached 80 years, the Native American in him brushed across his cheekbones even on his painful death bed. I remember the skin of my mother, still soft and warm, as she lay dying; she had fabulous, resilient, rich, black, glowing skin. I think she looked less wrinkled and tired then I do now but it may be hero worship. She wore her skin well, was proud of being human and alive and a woman and a survivor and a mother and proud of being B- L- A- C- K before it was a fashion and she cherished all beings in all skins-feeling at ease with all-treating everyone as if they were royalty and precious as velvet- because she was the royal one. I hope I live long and good enough to get to where my mom lay dying as she was a woman who was comfortable in her own skin.