My Grandmother's Thighs

We are saying goodbye, sharing stories, making sense of things and creating a legacy. So, in my mother's honor, here's the only poem I've ever written as an adult. I wrote it shortly after the birth of my first daughter and have it adapted it slightly to include my second daughter.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S THIGHS

One day, while sitting on the toilet
I looked down and was shocked to see
my grandmother's thighs.
Not just my grandmother's thighs,
but those of my great-grandmother,
my aunts and great aunts and my mother
(once she'd given up chain-smoking and
began to fill out).

I remember those thighs best
during summers at Beacon Beach,
spilling strongly and unashamedly
out of sturdy one-piece bathing suits
varicose veins glowing in the sun.
No beach cover-ups for these thighs!
They existed proudly alongside
aesthetically more pleasing specimens,
tanned, smooth, shapely thighs
that stuck unsubstantially out of bikinis
The contrast was like that of stiletto heels
and sturdy winter boots.

From a child's height the thighs
were what you saw first
as you peered trustingly up
at grandma or auntie or mommy,
waiting for them to dispense juice from the cooler,
provide money for ice cream,
or give you the go-ahead to return to the ocean,
your thirty minute waiting period after eating
finally at an end.

They were like buoys on the sand,
attached to the ever-vigilant woman
who watched you swim,
and you knew that they would propel her to rescue you,
should you be trapped
in the jaws of the angry, churning Atlantic Ocean.

At the end of the day
they peeked out from under
the shower stall and later the locker,
before being covered up again by flowered dresses,
encasing the women who led us to the car
carrying piles of blankets and coolers and bags,
the thighs supporting them and their bundles
like trustworthy yaks on a Himalayan trek.

I will never love my thighs
and will continue to run, bike and tone them into submission.
I will resent my genes for passing on to me such beasts
and will always cover them up at the beach
with exotic sarongs that say "No! I am not like those women.
I am different. I have traveled. I have done things!"

But I will also hope
that once in a while my daughters will get a glimpse of them
and experience the same sense of trust that I had.
I want them to know that I will always be there.
I want them to be aware of the strength
of the women from whom they are descended.
But mostly I want them to be blessed with
their father's thighs.