Collectible (2.24.14)

I was watching a TV show
where a man owned a comic book,
a "collectible."
He was hoping to sell it,
but only for a million dollars.
"How much is it worth?"
he asked the expert, who answered
with a snide little twinkle in his eye,
"As much as the buyer is willing to pay."

Now,
I'm not that interested in comic books
or collectibles,
but, as a woman,
I know how it feels to be valued
based on whether enough people want you.
I know that you can be Limited Edition,
autographed by the
Author Himself
but if you have any "imperfections"
(the kind that prove you have an identity
or a past)
you might as well be thrown away.

My daughter was born missing
three toes
a radius bone
an ovary.
Her diaphragm was a tattered scrap of paper
torn out of the first chapter of her life.
She was the collectible comic book
that has been opened and read and pored over,
touched and loved until she fell apart,
her insides literally spilling out into a plastic sheath
that held her together.

The doctors had offered to take her off my hands,
cheap.
But she was worth so much more than that
and not because
I wanted her.

My daughter and I
are not collectibles.
You are worth more
than a comic book.

Our value lies
not in whether we are wanted
but in whether we
Are.