Measuring Tape

I have a measuring tape


A gift from my mother 



Packing my childhood room into four boxes


And the suitcase I bought for my year abroad 


I put it into the car that I bought for less than 1000 dollars 


The type of car that was older than my 19 years


The type of car that you have to explain the “quirks” to a new driver



Audibly closing the trunk


My father gave me a hug


And my mother gave me 


A soft hand-sized bag


Patches of different purple fabric 


Zig zag stitching, like I loved when I was a child


A perfect bow of ribbon to seal the belly 



Inside 
Spools of thread clinking like glasses 


Blue, Black, Grey, White


Needles in a matchbox 


Mismatched buttons in varied sizes


A seam ripper



And a measuring tape

A measuring tape 
dreaming to be held like she does


Stretched over silk


Hoping seamstress is hereditary


Pulsing through my veins 
like my mother’s 



I can see her now 



Hunched over the table 


The only time she would allow slouching 


Her glasses sitting on the tip of her perfect nose 


The nose my oldest sister got 


The nose I showed a plastic surgeon


As he took off my father’s dorsal hump 


An architect building a bridge


that tourists drive thousands of miles to take pictures of



I can hear her now 



Humming the song she taught to her music class that afternoon 


I hum like she does 


Beautifully. Subconsciously. Incessantly. Obnoxiously.


Starting closed mouth, then slowly allowing my lips to part


A hum that got a kick on my chair from the desk behind me during tests 


A hum that people find uncomfortable 


Staring at my shoes while listening through a stall accompanied with a trickle


A hum that turns into a song

Belting relentlessly

Amplified by porcelain shower walls 


A voice that birthed a rule from my father


“No singing past 11 pm because I have an early meeting in the morning”



I can smell her now



Scented candles

Probably one I bought her


Or one of my three sisters 


She’s so easy to buy gifts for


She wants candles


So does my Irish twin


My sister that shares the same age for nine days of the year

An inhale of a sweet, potent room can transport me back 
to giggling on the stained sofa, playing with her envious blonde hair


Talking shit about our older sisters while wearing each other’s clothes


Holidays and seasons are associated with scents now 


A candle called fresh pine

Even though we always bought a real tree


Despite us all hating the pine needles in our socks 


Pumpkin cinnamon stick

Coming home with leaves in my scarf to the allusion of pumpkin pie


Pina Colada

As I applied for summer jobs while my friends went to Hawaii


Rainy New York

As I put fresh flowers from our garden into the vase my father bought for her



I can feel her now



As my shadow dances by her open sewing room door


Urgently asked me to not go and to come in for a hug


She calls them “hug breaks”


They are administered with ever passing in our household


Tender. Warm.

An embrace no lover could ever quench


My father said she taught him to hug


But somehow it didn’t get learned by my second oldest sister


Her boney, bulimic frame could disintegrate into dust by even the gentlest touch


Even the delicacy only a mother can possess


Only someone who has felt your heartbeat inside her belly


Stretch marks like a road map to all the plans she has for us




I have a measuring tape

It longs to touch fabric


Needle between my teeth


To measure my hips to build something around them


To measure my chest to make a perfectly sized bodice


To measure my legs to flatter their size



A measuring tape is supposed to be a tool to create something that fits you

Not to measure your worth in everything that you don’t fit into

I have a measuring tape


I want to hold it like my mother does

-FW