The Bare Midriff

Previously

…She began to write—not about the day of normal, or the hope of reversal, but about the feeling of finally letting go. She wrote about her grandmother’s words, about the warmth of her mother’s smile, about the autumn air on her skin. When she finished, she placed the notebook beside her father’s journal and the photograph of him laughing at the barbecue. Three generations of Shirt-Ups, each with their own story, but all choosing to live fully. She looked at her reflection in the window. Her blue polo had ridden up, as always. She didn’t pull it down. She just smiled. “Hello, Grandma,” she whispered. The wind rustled the curtains, and for a moment, she could almost smell lavender.