Starfish

by Lisa Fipps

I close my eyes as the brush massages my scalp. Relaxing. Soothing. Comforting. Words not usually associated with Mom. “I didn’t realize how bad it was getting for you.” “The chair? The photoshopped picture? Those weren’t clues? And you see how I get treated— sometimes you even blame me for the way others treat me. That’s wrong, Mom. But what’s worse is the way you treat me. You can be my worst bully.” Mom hangs down her head. “I realize now I’ve been saying the wrong things. I’ve always been better at writing than talking. I guess that’s why I like being a writer. With writing, I can take the time to find the right words and not blurt out something I might not even mean. I’ve never been great at talking.” “No argument there.” Mom laughs. “You’re good with words. Just be careful to use them as tools, not weapons.” I jump up. “Great point, Mom!” I look her in the eyes. “You need to remember it, too. Do you know what it feels like to be called a big ol’ fat thing?” I lean in. “Thing!” I say it softer. Slower. I pull away, starfish, make myself as big as I can. “Take a good look, Mom.” I turn in a circle. Once. Twice. Three times. “Am I just a thing to you? Behold the thiiiiiiiiing!” Mom buries her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. So very sorry. Thing is a horrible word. It should never be used to describe any person. I wish I could take back ever saying that. I honestly never meant to hurt you. Ever.” I flop down on the bed, exhausted. I want to believe her, but I can’t trust ...