Words by Rachel Johnston, Photograph of her, her mother and her grandmother
My mothers body is a patchwork of birthing scars. They run like streams around her tummy.
My mother's leg is missing a kneecap, it has been replaced. It dimples, a river of a scar reaching out.
When I see her, I look for her scars. My mother's scars are beautiful, like tattoos but with better stories.