hips

a call to my femininity

a trail of beginnings

a way to feel rooted

**

it all started with a touch of the hips

a graze.

four fingers gliding across a hipbone, resting ever so lightly on the very top of her hip.

and from that point on, those fingers rarely left that scared spot.

in early mornings, those fingers would find themselves there again, wrapping themselves around her flesh and pulling her in close.

**

she tied the apron around herself.

it rested snuggly on her hips.

it was white lined with pink embroidery,

and as thin as they could come.

it reminded her of seashells.

and the one in particular that used to be in the bathroom.

as a child she picked it up and held it close to her ear.

she didn't know much about oceans - she was a prairie girl.

but if there was a chance that she could hear that infinite blue mass in one compact piece of calcium - my god, she would do it. she listened with deep intent and she swore she heard it all.

she grinned at how the oddest moments take you back.

standing in the kitchen, wearing an apron, holding a whisk and thinking about that seashell.

it used to belong to her grandmother, this apron.

she inherited it along with a couple of other household items.

an antique sifter, a mortar and pestle and this apron.

this apron that hung on her hips, wrapped in a bow that rested delicately on her low back.

she wore it when she baked as a way to feel closer to the matriarch who took her last breath a couple of months back.

she thought maybe, just maybe, she would wear it and be gifted with her grandmother's recipe for cinnamon buns.

they were infamous, those cinnamon buns.

known to cause sticky little fingers, and some adult-sized ones too.

**

in a vibrant splash of colour, women lined the room.

all nervous, all overly aware of their hips.

we wore scarves on our hips so we knew exactly where they were.

where our flesh ended and the universe began.

we all stared at the floor with intent, watching our fingers trace a figure 8 symbol

∞

then we stepped into it and our hips picked up where our fingers left off.

she came around and rested her hands lightly on our hips

this is just for me, she said, i need to know that your hips can follow the pattern

and they all could.

after, we collapsed into fits of laughter.

giggly like girls and proud like women.

women with hips.

**

and after such profound connection to my past, my loves and my body

how could i even begin to hate my hips?

i know you want me to, claiming they are too big.

or too small.

but, no. i refuse.

they are mine.

and they are my gateway into many wonderful things.

i choose to enjoy them.

and this act of loving my hips, this ode to my hips,

i hope it stings.

i hope you are stung by this act of rebellion.

loving your body, after all, is the most rebellious thing a woman can do.

join me, won't you?