For Today I Am a Boy

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ON THE DAY my sister Adele is born, my mother goes to the butcher. It is January 3, 1969. Her belly, hard as packed snow, bobs outside of her unzipped parka as she walks up to the counter. An enormous sow is laid out in the display case. In her mind, Mother replaces the pig’s body with her own: her legs hanging on hooks at the back; her tiny feet encased in rounded, hoof-like leather boots; the shinbone ready to be held in a vise and shaved for charcuterie. Her torso is cut below the breast and lies flat, showing a white cross-section of vertebrae. Her head is intact, eyes clouded yellow and rolled upward. The dried-out edges of her ears let light through. Human ears probably taste similar to pig’s ears, she thinks. A glutinous outer layer with crisp cartilage underneath. She could stew them, char them in a skillet, watch her skin blister and pop.

The butcher asks my mother what she wants. “A pound of sausages,” she says. She feels a stab — homesickness, maybe, or dread at the thought of more burned sausages and boiled potatoes. The pain arcs from one side to the other, as though her hipbones are electrodes lighting up the space between. Her legs give out and she lands on her hands and knees.

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