Their Body, Themselves
My child casually peeled their T-shirt off; I was the one who felt exposed.
It was unseasonably warm for winter in Maui, according to our guide, and surprisingly dry. We’d hiked an hour through what had been advertised as a rain forest, although I’d been picturing more of a lush-dense-overgrowth-covered-in-moss situation as opposed to the modest, ginger-infested private farmland it turned out to be.
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“I saw that God I’d been so determined to believe in not as an absolute, but as a construct that couldn’t take a joke.”
“My parents had a shared language I didn’t understand, messes I couldn’t always be there to tidy.”
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What I knew about my grandparents was enough to fill every hidden closet, every secret candy drawer.
If cancer and trauma are hereditary, is it not my responsibility to do everything in my power to ensure neither my children nor I have to suffer?