That Old Beautiful Love

I opened a pair of denim shorts for my birthday and held them up for the room. They had daisies

printed on them. “Those aren’t gonna fit around that big butt!” said my grandfather. I folded the

shorts quietly as my mother assured me, ’he’s old.’ I opened the next gift with watery eyes. It

was a set of underwear with lace waistbands, the colors mauve, dove pink, and beige. I didn’t

want to hold them up for the room. There was a size printed on the tag. My mother assured me,

‘show everyone, they’re beautiful.’ She laughed, winking, I don’t know who she was winking at.

I held up the underwear, hiding behind them. I opened the next gift with long streaks down my

face. It was a set of earrings, little orange basketballs. I didn’t want to hold up anything. My

mother assured me, ‘you love basketballs.’ I held up the earrings, eyes cast to the floor. My

grandfather quipped, “You better play a lot of basketball to fit in those denim shorts!”

Years later, my grandfather choked on his heart pills while alone in his kitchen. At his

funeral I donned the denim shorts, the lace underwear, the basketball earrings, and nothing else. I

was several years past puberty so nothing quite zipped or looked right. “What on earth are you

wearing?!” mother asked, staring at my naked breasts in the busy funeral parlor. "All the fucking

hits," I said, holding up my form, daring the corpse to chime in.