Her Name in the Sky

by Kelly Quindlen

Hannah stands naked in front of her bathroom mirror and looks at herself—really looks at herself—for the first time in months. Her ash blonde hair, with the split ends tickling halfway down her back. She’ll have to get a haircut before Emory. Her blue-gray eyes, always narrowed in thought, curtained by brittle eyelashes. Her small, thin lips on a mouth that eats and drinks and speaks and prays. There is so much more for her to taste in this life. The skin on her body. Skin that has withheld and has given, skin that has absorbed alcohol thrown in violence and tears wept in redemption. Cold skin. Hot skin. Clothed skin. Naked skin. And this neck—this neck that has leaned forward so she could pray over a chair, that has tilted back so she could see the heavens, that has turned to the side so she could hide from her demons, that has propelled her forward so she could kiss a girl. The legs that have carried her when she wanted to separate, that have parted when she wanted to unite. The arms that have shaken when she gripped her chair with terror, that have quivered when she touched another with courage. And her hands—the hands that have white-knuckled on railings when she needed to breathe, that have folded together in chapels when she needed to pray, that have entered another when she needed to live. When she needed to love. She sees herself, and she does not look away.