I imagine that there are ways in which our bodies never really stop being our mothers’ bodies. In the bath, I trace my fingers along the lines of myself like a person following a river to its source. When I laugh like her or when I’m mean like her or when I go cold and distant like her, I can feel her lingering, ready to claim what is hers and has always been hers. If her body could betray her, my body could certainly betray me.
