Writing Assignment: Write an Ode to a Part of Your Body

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Ode to Family Resemblance

My mom and I have the exact same feet. I see her feet in my own flip-flop sandaled toes, pinkie toes turned in sideways,as if someone squeezed them into pointy heels for years and years. I see the same sideways pinkies in my son’s tiny tootsies. Ten little toes, all in a wonky row, like Mommy, like Grandma.

Feet might be the only thing Mom and I have in common.

She’s in love with her Singer sewing machine and Butterick patterns; I’m “You’re gonna do what? Sew something? Just buy it already and save some time.” She’s “Hey Honey, I bought you an ice cream maker, you just have to boil cream and vanilla and sugar for a half an hour and keep stirring, keep stirring, don’t forget to stir.” I’m “But Ben and Jerry’s is cheap and they do good work. Very good work.”

She’s Aplets & Cotlets, Chico Sticks and Abba Zabas; I’m Runts and Red Vines and Buttered Popcorn Jelly Bellies.

She’s “The world has gone to shit and I’m gonna die soon. Will you be sad?” I’m “It’s not that bad really. We’ve got coffee. Would you like a cup?”

She’s cream and sugar; I take nothing.

She’s one leg shorter than the other (polio), I’m just short (genetics).

She always thought a girl should wear ruffles and lace and pretty, pretty dresses with un-scabbed knees crossed perfectly and daintily at all times. I thought the best clothes came from my brother’s room, and dresses made playing soccer at recess impossible.

She’s nervous: pace the room, touch everything in my house, read the stuff on my refrigerator, point at the pictures (“Get me a copy.”), can’t sit still, rub-rub-rub the pink, dainty hands with the un-dainty chewed-to-bleeding cuticles against the polyester-covered thigh over and over and over. She’s talk during movies and ask questions but never listen to the answers.

I (sometimes) want to strangle her.

But then I remember that our feet – they are just the same.

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