Among my earliest memories:
it was a Sunday afternoon
and I was less than
5 years old
but I was
old enough to know
my weakness
because it was also
my mom’s weakness:
we were both fat.
I was taking
my bath
and my mom came in
to check on
something
and she saw my
slippery, overweight body
luxuriating in the soapy
water.
I remember
her face contracting
and her jaw tightening
as she hissed:
“if you don’t lose
that weight
I’m going to take you to the
doctor’s and he’ll cut
the fat off you
in strips!”
Her words seared me
like a surgeon’s scalpel.
I still have the scar.
My mom rarely
ventured out of her
self-imposed prison
in suburban Southern California
because
she always thought
she was too fat.
Sometimes the sins of the
mother are the sins of the son
and I fight for self-control
as I keep stuffing cookies
candy
anything
into me
far past the point of
satiety or enjoyment.
I have long since
forgiven my mom
because
growing up
as a fat boy
who didn't like sports
and would rather go shopping,
many times
she was my only friend
and because I know
what we detest most in others
is the part of us
that we hate the most,
but it still haunts me
forty years later
as I sit at my desk
with a soda
and a drawer
full of snacks
never far
from reach.
