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Godzilla’s Arm

September 15, 2017

This thing pops up everywhere. I gasp, mistaking it for a cockroach even though it is dull, pebbly, and green while a cockroach is shiny, smooth, and brown. It makes no sense, really, but my mind rights quickly so it’s just a split moment. Split between the time when I know it is a cockroach and the time when it becomes, and stays, Godzilla’s Arm.

This morning it is on the shelf with the kids’ bath toys. It’s wedged under a ferry boat made out of recycled milk cartons. This morning it is only what it is.

I shower in natural light. I prefer the dark to artificial light. It used to drive me crazy when my mom insisted on turning down the light, but now I get it. It doesn’t take many hours under hot lights to make you sick of it.

My scalp hurts.

This happens when my hair grows beyond two inches. It’s only been less than that once. I was pain free for a few months. The trade off was that I looked like a fat, tightly packed qtip. Basically a tampon.

I’m growing it out now because looking like a tampon makes me feel bad about myself. I don’t think this is what my Mee Maw meant when she said “beauty hurts.” She meant heels.

My mom doesn’t know who Godzilla is. My dad and I used to watch it when it came on in the middle of the day. We ate spaghetti with butter and pepperoni pizza in the shape of a rectangle. We also watched The Sound of Music. It had an intermission. A movie on two tapes. So much about that my kids will never understand.

My son thinks Godzilla is a T-Rex.

My daughter is one. She doesn’t have thoughts about Godzilla.

This arm isn’t actually part of my son’s toy collection. It’s mine.

Knowing the story about me and my dad has lead Cyrus to get every Godzilla-ish toy or statue or gnome eating dinosaur he can find for me. I don’t actually remember the movie. And I don’t really have feeling about Godzilla, but I love the gifts. I really do.

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