In six months, we're retreating back to California, under shady woods, but far enough from the ocean that salt doesn't bloat the air.
Most of my family is there.
We're Italian. Food is love. Food is family.
Deny food, and you deny your family. Deny the plates of pasta and treats and you deny their love.
Which is going to put me in the eye of the storm. Life will be a blur of aunts with trays of brownies, grandmothers with pumpkin bread, friends of the family with fried tofu and heavy sauce.
I'm growing again. That, or losing weight is making me seem longer.
I held up my hands to my face. My hands have always been stout; 'earth hands' my grandma Greta said. My hands are supposed to be strong, show I am supportive and stubborn. Now, my fingers seem longer. I announced to my mother, "I think I'm growing."
She observed the hand I held up. "Your hands are shaking. You need to eat," she says casually. She knows I haven't eaten today. I grab poptarts, warm them, then dispose of them. I spread crumbs next to my lips and walk around with the plate for a minute.
After I wash my face to make sure the crumbs dont' get in my mouth, I heat water for tea. I hate green tea, but I'm running out of peppermint. I take a few sips before my shaking hands knock it on the carpet. Attempt number two at consuming something is watery Crystal Light (5) with a packet of Equal (4).
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