Puffed Cheeks

a threnody

Sister, you are the puffed cheeks of a woman unsure of her trajectory. Although, it could also be the puffed cheek of the hot-dogger who is about to do an incredibly dangerous move. And if this is inaccurate, then it’s the puffed cheek of a factory worker who can’t take one more ounce of trouble or the student who can’t get one more demerit.

Sister, I see your cheeks puffing, like the blowfish we used to land on the deck and throw back out to sea. I see your brown skin working like bellows, and that leads to one more interpretation. You are the puffed cheeks of a mother giving birth.

No. Not that.

Babies and children mean nothing to you—less than nothing. Mother saw to that, and this is all you and I have in common, eh? We opted out, like so many others. That’s why children are born so oversized of late. The species knows when the jig is up.

Puffed cheeks.

Puffed cheeks.

Why does this image say so much about you? I cannot see you any other way. You are successful I am told. Why don’t I see you as a double axel or a triple lutz? Landing expertly, you smile, your expensive suit glittering under the stadium fluorescents. Why don’t I see you as a high-flying bird of prey? I hear you are merciless to your competitors. It must be that I don’t feel your power anymore, or the effortlessness of your exercises in winning it all. Perhaps I am projecting. I want you to be more like me, like when we were small.

Yes, of course. This is the unsayable thing, is it not? The unsayable wish is that. We are no longer alike. I don’t know how you look. What you sound like, I can only guess. Puffed cheeks blowing air. It’s that you are hot and tired, sister. I would like to make you a cool drink, or wash your hair, like when we could still speak, but you’re no longer here.