by Erin McKnight
The last time my hands explored my chest, I wasn’t bothered by its flatness. My chubby fingers were so focused on tracing the raised threads of the dress’s embossed flowers that they didn’t notice what was missing. But back then, of course, nothing was. It isn’t until I’m in the surgical gown that I find a ragged thread and remember the daisies. As my fingertips twist the strand, I wonder whether it’s a remnant of the decorative stitches once loosened by growing breasts, and which now hold closed my mutilated chest. Flowers will again bloom.
Erin McKnight was born in Scotland, and raised in South Africa. She now lives in Virginia, where she is at work on a collection of flash fiction.