Bodega | Easter

In fourth grade, my friend Emma had a fashion show birthday party. Having just moved to Grand Rapids from Lansing, I felt I had already lost my place. This outsider anxiety was not the sort of accessory to peel off, or layer on. There’s a picture from that night, where I am too tall for my own skin. Having heard of swans and elegance, my neck is extended further than seems possible, chin stretched skyward. When Emma’s mom showed us the photos, I learned pictures could sting. Realized the burn would be delayed, like holding a smile for the flash, but longer.

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Growing up, I remember waking early for Sunday mass. In parking lots, my mother pointed through crowds to stare at other mothers’ bodies, asking are those my legs? There was always a wrong answer. Often I told her what she wanted, chimed church bell yes at slim thighs; no, otherwise. There are no family photographs of us at church, not even from Easter.

* * *

I went to the art museum last month, where an exhibit featured a fashion designer. The third floor was a sea of mannequins, an army of plastic people with fishbone limbs and telephone wire waists. It looked like what the future looks like in movies that will be wrong in thirty years. The clothes were supposed to be the focus, all 3D-printed materials and magnetic appeal, but I only had eyes for their unreal ankles, loathing the angle of not-skin on not-bone. When the security guard turned her head, I reached out, poked a mannequin in a brown, wicker-stiff dress. Nothing happened. The feet of the thing were secured to the ground and besides, I don’t really know what I wanted. Consequences, I guess. Proof that gravity works.

140 – September 2024

By Anne Gerard

Easter