There is a picture taken for my father''s office desk, a studio portrait: But my parents were not fat. I was glad for the time.
Where pigs are invoked, whales, elephants, and Sherman tanks are sure to follow. The characters are skillfully portrayed, and well contrasted with each other, while the descriptions are full, clear, and powerful. Compare it to alcoholism. I had begun this weight loss seventeen months earlier, in , at pounds.
A year or so later, I am stalky-legged, my stomach pushes at the buttons of my dress. I could absorb the difference between New York and Montana.
In this last photo I am intently inventorying the contents of my and my cousin''s Easter baskets; she, blond and pixieish, is talking to the photographer. The Montanans milling around me at the curb were tall and blond, speaking with nasal cadences that, pronounced with a looser jaw, were a perfect west Texas drawl. Fat and thin, my total absorption in food no matter whose it is, and other people''s engagement with a world I blotted out.
Compare it to alcoholism. We all knew the story of how he chastised Dad about his high school girlfriend: It was all-hands-on-deck, and we''d been cleaning since we''d gotten home from school. A year later, a photo shows me sprawled next to Dick, my oldest brother.
It was all-hands-on-deck, and we''d been cleaning since we''d gotten home from school. The smell of ozone, clover, and cinnamon lingered from thunderstorms the night before, not yet evaporated in the dry desultory heat of midday; the cornflower sky glowed famously big, even in the valley.
Posted by: Vudogrel | on October 2, 2012
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