I’m trying out Medium. I just posted a short essay there:
The stories start when I’m young, thinner than I think, but with jiggly thighs and a round belly, incontrovertible as my red hair and freckles. In flashes: the time that my mom told me to get “something sensible” from the pool snack bar, then fixed me with a look when she saw me tucking into an ice cream cone. When I think about that Drumstick, I feel the wet elastic of my swimsuit,like coils around my hips and thighs.The time that my cousin slept over, and we stayed up late watching movies and eating oranges. There’s nothing wrong with oranges, but we each put away more than half a dozen. I remember my mother’s face, again, nonplussed. My appetite was somehow inexplicable. When she’d leave the house to go for a run, I’d grab a handful of Club crackers and wrap them in a napkin, with a ready hiding place in case she came back early.