Body—is dying a slow constant death.
When my sister used to visit, my father
often told her she looked fat. I
rummage through my purse for my
lunch, 15 cashews. A fat body is dying
in the same way a thin body is. Both
aspire toward the earth while the mind
disagrees. I wrestle with language in
the same way I wrestle with my body. I
eat language so I can find the right
words and am now overweight.
Sometimes I confuse being tired for
being hungry. Sometimes I confuse
being hungry for being alive. Now
when I visit my father at the facility, we
talk about his weight while he is sitting
there, unable to understand. He looks
fatter, I say. Look at his stomach, my
sister says. And then we laugh, as loud
and as hard as we can, until we are
Photograph of Victoria Chang by Margaret Molloy.