my mom’s thob nashel from before she met my dad fits me the way a midi dress would. i often think of how i do not feel my body would be able to grow another inside it after all the things i have done to it and how that may stem from not feeling prepared for that responsibility or may be irrelevant, entirely. she was younger and smaller and shorter than i am right now when she gave birth to me. but that is not to say her only force lied in being a mother: she had two degrees, two jobs, and multitudes of awards before her body created mine. i don’t know why i started using her as a marker of my age when i turned 18 but it has been four years and i’m no closer to figuring it out. we are everything and nothing alike, all at once. today, i noticed we have the same nail beds. last week, i noticed we have the same teeth. i pick up more of her habits than i leave behind with each passing year. we talked about international women’s day at my grandma’s house and i thought of all the unspoken sacrifices that brought all the women in my family to that room. to that moment. so much of being a woman is softness and strength. my grandma gifted me with a thob nashel from before she met my grandpa, when she was a girl. strangely, she was taller than we both are right now. my head has been a mess of chemistry and aging and corporeal forms and what it means to have a body tonight, but one thing rings clear: i am surrounded by generations of resilient, powerful women. in a thousand different ways. old and new. sometimes that means striving to be extraordinary but sometimes, marveling at the ordinary is just as important. just as worthy, just as beautiful.
- Mom: why is everything on the floor?
- Me: gravity mom