My hips are spreading, pressing up against the waistband of a pair of 90s pleated pants that she wore so much, the lining is beginning to fray. I've begun to fill out her cocktail dresses, last dry cleaned in 1997. The leather of my watchband is threatening to crumble at the ridge where it's been clasped to fit the exact circumference of a wrist, though it's hard to say where the wear from my mother's wrist ends and the wear from my own begins.
My body is becoming my mother's.
I can look in the mirror and point out her eyes, her jaw; I can itemize the objects I have of hers and touch them until they disintegrate, but there is one part of her legacy that I can't touch or inventory: her cancer.
If you believe this has been sent to you in error, please safely unsubscribe.