A poem by Rebecca Kural, Co-Manager & Writing Editor
My grandmother was a pink ballerina
when she was young.
Eventually boyish lines
became softer; plush.
A pillow to hold my mother.
But she offered no thanks to her own cradle.
Waves crashed on broke stones-
crash diets.
Numbers rising and falling with the tide.
My mother swam through waves
Winning ribbons
and medals
and college scholarships.
When she graduated she never wanted to step in a pool of water again.
No baths, only showers.
So she took off goggles
And picked up running shoes.
One day, when you girls were very young,
you didn’t want me to go running.
You didn’t want me to leave.
I asked you jokingly,
‘Do you want a skinny mommy or a fat mommy?’
She ran every single day
Until her body was screaming at her to stop.
My mother does not speak like that any more.
She skipped stones
Making sure that the heaviest sunk
To
the
bottom.
I got my grandmother’s long legs.
I have her eye for detail as well.
I stare into the mirror
And I scan my eyes over the image.
I am methodical, calculated,
and unforgiving.
But I am determined to toss the rest of the stones away.
My future daughter will not carry this heavy load.
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