The Step Stool
Sometimes I wonder what she would think of me,
The little girl standing on the step stool.
Not tall enough to reach the stove on her own,
yet old enough to follow another diet cookbook shown.

She was five, trying to make her mother happy.
In the pan a new spoonful of pancake batter,
A surprise sunday breakfast she made with her father.
The early morning filled with hushed whispers and muffled laughter.

It was a surprise, just for her mother,
A day that she wouldn't need to think about what she ate.
But there was not a moment that calories wouldn't count,
Not a moment that a single carb would be left unaccount.

And after her mother ate,
The little girl couldn't help but notice,
All of the food left untouched at noon.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ untouched at dusk.

No, I cannot blame her.
The woman that tried to be better.

And I don't want to hurt her.
The little girl standing on the step stool.

I don't want to hurt you.
But even though I see your shadows,
in the kitchen, in the garden, in the playground,
The passing memories that I desperately grasp onto,
I cannot bring myself to love the body you grew into.

And as the numbers tick down,
Seventy-two, sixty-two, fifty-two.
The hushed whispers and muffled laughter,
Turn into the foretelling of the story thereafter.

© EOrchids
Art by Stephen Cerceillo