BETH ANN FENNELLY
Like everything delicious, I was warned against it.Those mornings, I’d slowly descend the stairsin my plaid Catholic school uniform skirt, find my parentseating behind newspapers, coned in separate silences.The only music was the throat-clearing rasp ofbeing scraped with too-little butter, three passesof the blade, battle hymn of the eighties.When I pulled the butter close, my mother’s eyeswould twitch to my knife, measuring my measuring—the goal, she’d shared from Weight Watchers,a pat so thin the light shines through. If I disobeyed,indulged, slathered my toast to glistening lace,I’d earn her favorite admonition, predictable as Sunday’sdry communion wafer: “A moment on the lips…”I couldn’t stop my head from chiming, forever on the hips.
