Uncomfortably warm in my grandmother’s
home, sitting down to an old lady’s
dinner of green beans, corn bread and chicken
casserole. Nothing salted.
I am surrounded by the women
who’ve created me, all talking
at once about who was saved at this Sunday’s
service, last night’s Lifetime movie
and weight.
Always weight.
They compliment my cousin for her loss and
Grandmother says her neck looked fat
in a recent picture.
The dishes are loaded, pots are
washed, put away. The cards come out and
they play, slapping at a ten of
hearts, yelling I want that!
while silently, actually
wanting what the other has.
Her smaller nose or delicate
hands or her red hair or curly hair or
her olive skin and always ― always ― her
thinner waist. I am bound
by the women who’ve created me
because I, too, covet
what the other has. Her courage ― to command
a life with Paige that
makes her happy. Her intellect ― to express
herself in both Spanish and English. Her
resilience ― to rear
seven children in
nine years. Her happiness ― to revel in life despite
a lifetime of arthritis.
And her strength ― to hold tight to
a little girl’s hand as the
cancer won.
Chocolate oatmeal cookies, pink
salad, diet coke, divinity. The games
continue.
I am entangled in the women who’ve
created me. I am
surrounded.
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