Fall 2007 / Spring 2008

Knees

by Cynthia Romero

There's a wall, two feet in height, that marks where you lie. It took me
the first few times to realize that the wall was just a marker, and that
you really weren't just around the corner listening to me.

This is what I read to you the first time:

I have your knees... I never liked them, and I always tried to hide
them with longer hemlines and my own hands. I thought they were
unattractive and not lady-like at all.
“Girls don't have lanky knees,” I thought. “Girls have soft, flat knees;
not knees that pop out to the side.”

Now, they're my knees. My body is nothing short of identical to
yours. Lanky, lanky, ass-less, a slightly protruded belly, and legs that
are barely there.

I used to ask you when am I was gonna get real legs and you'd
laugh and say that I already had them and that I was perfect.

We walked everywhere together, to bus stops and corner
stores, our legs stayed just as skinny, yours a little hairier than mine.
I remember your feet...looking at them, calluses, corns, inches and
inches of sheer peculiarity. And then I'd look at mine and take a sigh
of relief because they were nothing like yours.

You always used to grab my upper lip and tell me that I had my
mother's lips. You said I had a unique nose, but you loved me
anyway. I was an odd child and yet you still made me feel beautiful,
and you held me up on that pedestal, even when I was at my lankiest
and even while I wore second hand clothes.

You took me under your wing, that niche, your hairy armpit. You
were my king, my chef, my teacher, my comedian, my muse, my
heartbreak, my life. You've been a truth, and I am extremely blessed
to have had the best years, truly the best years when smiles and
hugs were our only form of currency.
I realize now, that there's no other place in the world I feel more
validated than I do standing in front of your wall. It imparts no
judgement or criticism, only a silent air. I'm here.