Is that your Mom?
It was never the question really…it was the look on her face.
You and your Mom can have a seat here.
Can we? Well, thanks, but, she is NOT my mother!
We are four years apart! Sometimes I wanted to scream at them.
These are my, “DAUW-GH-TERS”.
Is that your son?
God, it was confusing. Adults…
What do they mean? Are they stupid?
“SHE HAS BOOBS!” I wanted to yell.
I never did. Not once.
No longer perceived to be of the male gender, she graduated quickly to being a senior citizen.
The first few times it happened I pretended it didn’t, almost as well as she did.
I quickly learned to be pro-active, as my Mother had before me.
“This is my SISTER and we would like….”
Echos of ‘these are my DAUW-GH-TERS…’
It was futile. She heard them. She felt their words. Their words hurt.
It was years before we joked about it.
I tried to make the ignorant people absorb the brunt of the joke but she and I both knew she owned the role.
‘The girls’, for definition.
‘The girls’, for clarification.
‘The girls’, for reference.
‘The girls’, for affection.
Our identities amalgamated into one.