“Do these pants make my bum look fat?”
A woman framed by a mirror,
leaning against the wall—
a portal,
a time machine,
to her grandmother,
banging her hips against the doorframe,
a private,
slow,
surgical procedure
to straighten her flowy figure.
A man, a partner, an unqualified judge.
“No,” he says,
not even looking.
“Really? Are you sure?”
A short interrogation,
but eventually,
she will settle for his answer.
She twists her torso,
shoulders tilted back—
a statue,
a replica,
the latest version of great-grandmother’s body—
slightly altered,
slightly amended,
slightly diluted,
but still the real thing.
“Do these pants make my bum look fat?”
The words escape
before she can catch them,
before she can cradle them,
before she could birth them…
It feels… premature.
She is only 27—no, 28—
hmm, accepts 28.
The numbers start slipping after 25,
stuck in age purgatory—
old, but not quite old,
young, but not quite young.
It will be better when she is 60.
She grips her waist tight,
just to see how small it can be—
a quick handshake with her mother
before the portal closes.
She lingers a little longer,
taking a picture of a picture,
keeping an heirloom,
an inheritance,
safe in her memory.
Something sweet for the daughters
she is afraid to have.
A memoir, a guide
for her mother to refer back to
between switching diets.
Something to remember
when she is starving at 2 pm.
When her shape is too shapely for that dress,
leaving only a drop of blood in an ocean of men.
Men should want you,
but not too much.
That dress should be tight,
but not too tight—
it should be just right.
Rich hips,
her generational wealth.
Like a religion,
tomorrow she will meet her ancestral lineage
through a frame,
a reflection,
her most silent, cherished fear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Daniel Adeoye on Unsplash