dimples

she counted them.

i can still remember the pressure
of her fingers
on the backs of
my legs.

and you have them there
and there
and there…

my mother was telling me about the dimples
on my thighs.

i was fourteen.

her worst fear for me
was that i would get fat —
gain weight
like she had,
like her mother had.

she secretly believed
that is why my father’s eyes
had wandered
so many times.

i had an hourglass figure
with hips
and ass

and apparently…legs with dimples.

i have never been able to see myself,
the real me,
in a mirror.

i can only see the dimples.

i vowed i would never,
ever
put my own daughters through that.

they never once heard me
criticize their bodies.

yet…

they heard me criticize my own,
mercilessly,
counting dimples,
squeezing soft folds,
constantly working out
constantly berating
my image
in the glass.

although i never said a word to them
about their bodies,
i watch in helpless dismay
as both of them
count their own dimples
and squeeze their own folds.

and so they learned the lesson
a different way.

j.a. carter-winward, no regrets