Εκπαιδευμένοι στο οίδημα

PRIVATE PARTS The first love of my life never saw me naked. There was always a parent coming home in a half-hour, always a little brother in the next room, always too much body and not enough time for me to show him. Instead, I gave him a shoulder, an elbow, the bend of my knee. I lent him my corners, my edges: the parts of me I could afford to offer, the parts of me I had long since given up trying to hide. He never asked for more. He gave me back his eyelashes, the back of his neck, his palms. We held every piece we were given like it was a nectarine—might bruise if we weren’t careful— we collected them like we were trying to build an orchard. And the spaces that he never saw: the ones my parents had labeled  private parts  when I was still small enough to fit all of my self and worries inside a bathtub, I made up for them by handing over all the private parts of me. There was no secret I did not tell him, there was no moment we did not share. We didn’t grow up, we grew in: ...