Like Mother, Like Wound

On becoming the monster who lives

When I turned 12, my mom taught me to shave. We sat on the edge of my bathtub, one of those plush razors in my mom’s shaking hand. I lathered my leg up with cheap conditioner - poor man’s shaving cream - and began shaving… taking two inches of skin off with the hair around my ankles.

“Maybe we should start with your shin,” my mom suggested, unsure.