The hardest part of grief for me has been losing memories of the person you've lost, like their voice or a clear picture of their face. But from my Oma, there are other strange tidbits I do remember. Like a spot on her neck where she had a scar that looks like a mole removed. I may have asked as a child, but likely got a "hmpf" as a reply and initiation into Topics We Don't Ask About, per Northern Germany cold politeness.

Another memory of her has come years after certain angles of my face remind me of her in the mirror; it's something I see in the body-sized mirror in the gym as I work my arms and see the small dollop of fat above my elbow. And while I know I'm not an overall lithe creature, it's this overhang that makes me want to do triceps dips for an hour straight and keep up the mantra of yes, I am genetically built to carry a sheep through the bog, and it's fine, fine, fine.

And yet, it also reminds me of my Oma. It's what I saw when I watched her peel potatoes with her back to me in the kitchen or how they'd jiggle when she'd manically grab my Opa's arm to try and snatch his cards because, for the love of schnitzel, they cannot be losing another game of spades.

While my grandmother may have rolled her eyes at the notion of scrutinizing the backs of our arms — arms are for peeling potatoes, hanging laundry, carrying groceries, and occasionally accusing your husband of failing at a card game — I have spent more than 40 years absorbing the quiet curriculum of modern womanhood, where every inch of the body exists in need of optimization: tighten, lift, smooth, remove.

Every mirror asks you what still needs fixing. But love doesn't.

My husband has acne scars that he has always been self-conscious about. If there were a button that erased them tomorrow, I know he'd press it. Yet those scars are among the things that make him unmistakably himself. They are part of the face I fell in love with and give me comfort when I realize that only I get to see those scars up close.

I suspect the same is true of so many of the features we quietly wage war against. Laugh lines earned through decades of smiling or hands with callouses. Or the crooked tooth that appeared after not wearing that retainer that everyone sees when you laugh. Or the soft places inherited from parents and grandparents whose DNA continues its work through us.

Perhaps that is why I've softened toward the little pocket of flesh above my elbow. Don't get me wrong. There are still mornings when I catch myself wondering how many more exercises it would take before it disappeared. But I also remember whose arms they resemble.

And while grief has a cruel habit of stealing memories a little at a time, our bodies become their own archive, preserving details we never thought to remember.

That little overhang will probably never become my favorite feature. But every time I notice it now, I think less about correcting it and more about my grandmother standing in her kitchen, waving her arms while telling my grandfather that she'll still partner up with him, but he better be on his game.

For all the effort we spend trying to edit ourselves into smoother, younger, more perfect versions, perhaps the most beautiful parts of us are the ones that survived generations before we did. They are the fingerprints our families leave behind, small reminders that even after grief steals so much, it cannot take everything. Sometimes love lingers in something as ordinary as the little wobble of fat on the back of an arm.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at [email protected]. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: ?????? ???????? at Unsplash