we ARE our stories .

boobs . boobies . ta-tas . titties. who-hahs . melons . tig-oool-bitties . BREASTS .

my grandmother -
a woman with sandy light skin & hair that swung like anchors behind the backs of her knees .
her creole veins bled new orleans on our meals .
a stern woman - whose stone eyes would melt into carmel and fall into the face of my little brother . oh, how she adored dallas . she loved him enough to crown him her, 'pooty-wootie'.
she loved me too .
but not in the same way . she had disdain for 'fast teenage girls' & even though i was only eight, she had even more disdain for that possibility .
she, herself, gave birth to seven mischevious boys; they had different dads ...
yes, she had disdain for laying on backs with feet scraping the air.
she loved me too .
one of the strongest women i knew, raised seven kids alone & scooped us up with wide smiles .
took us to the park & showed me pictures that i was too small to understand, but too old not to pretend to care . laughs, naps, and black&white television nervana -

then she became sick .

and like a know-nothing child ... i was embarrassed . i was too scared for her bald head to be seen by my fellow foolish eight-year old companions . i hoped & prayed (to a God i knew too little about) that they could not see what was missing underneath her t-shirt . i wanted to handle that confusion, pain, & fear alone ... in that little blue house with the smells of cinnamon toast & strawberry cheesecake pie .

but oh how i miss her now - i'm just a 20 year old girl wanting to fill up the cavaties of her past . i'm just a girl affected by the devastation wrapped in pretty pink ribbons .

- breast cancer awareness month . get a breast examination - early detection saves lives .

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