The Difficult Conversation
Muma, why do the teachers drop their voice when saying puberty? It's like a curse, or like a ghost they're scared to name aloud. They tell us it lasts only a few years, but your hot flash just melted in my hand the ice lolly I gave you for the laugh.
You speak of hormones like a messy flatmate who leaves the towels all across the floor. Is that the same flatmate they say is coming to visit me, to mess my room, to stay?
And if it's truly just a few short years, then why's your lip still fuzzy, soft and dark? Grampy gave that to you, you always say. But I'm your clone — I have your stubborn chin, your way of sighing at the evening news. I also have his tan: I turn to bronze while you float through the summer like a ghost. So does that mean the moustache comes for me?
And Muma — tell me why you cry at dishes. Not sobbing, no. Just standing at the sink with one wet plate, and tears fall in the rinse. You say it's nothing. Nothing's not like that.
I'm starting to believe that puberty is just a lie adults tell smaller kids. Like Santa. Like the Tooth Fairy at my bed. Like "we are nearly there, just five more minutes".
Does anyone grow up and leave it, Muma? Or does it just change costumes, shift its name, and follow us like weather we can't shake?
| I'm watching you, Muma. | And I'm watching you watch me. That's how we'll learn. |