Her breasts were ruined. Ruined? Are mine? Are my hips (wider than in past years) or my stomach (not stretch-marked but a bit looser due to pregnancy), or my feet (once a petite 7, now an 8 or 8.5 depending on the shoe) are they ruined? Or are they just written upon by life. By the stories of being young, of aging, of producing children. Of pain, of joy, of conception and labor, of strain and challenge. I can look at my body and read those histories.