My thighs have become so large they look like watermelons.
The American kind, the kind without seeds.
Children flock to our yard, when we hold our annual summer
neighborhood bar-b-que.
The other adults in the yard yammer and banter about
so-and-so and such-and-such and talk through their teeth as if they were
spitting out seeds of regret, remorse, or some other word that starts with
something.
Meanwhile, the children suck on my thighs like glue.