#71

Some things got looser: Her pants. Her bra. Her watchband. And some things got tighter: Her budget. Her gait. Her arms wrapped around herself. Everything was changing. Skin peeled off. Hair fell out. Food vomited up. Changing, but not disappearing. Replacing.

The word she kept coming back to was “molt.” Looking in the mirror she was reminded of the first grade class pet, Juliette the parakeet. She could still hear the horrified gasps of the children when they saw the mess of feathers floating down from the cage, and how the teacher explained that they should be extra nice to Juliette because molting is one of the toughest times in a bird’s life.

Molt was a simple word. But a new word. A secret word. A dirty word. A word about change. A word like molten. Like hot lava. A word that carves and cuts and redefines.

“Why?” The children had asked. “Why does she do it?”

“Juliette’s feathers are worn out. If she doesn’t replace them, she won’t get through the winter.”