Hello? And then something unexpected,

a voice, scratchy and familiar,

hurried. A voice like Central Park

or learning to ride my bike.

A voice

like home.

Ari? it finally whispers. I stop breathing, and again,

Ari?

I let the breath in, slowly, and find my voice.

Dad?

It’s a start.

Home

My mom declares,

It’s time to clean,

spends the afternoon

putting every spray bottle,

brush, sponge,

and mop out on the kitchen

counter and starts to work.

This is her magic way

of making things new.

In the hallway,

I wipe the baseboards,

and down in the cracks

I see the pounds I’ve lost,

like creatures

hiding there,

waiting to

reach out

with sugary tentacles

and bready arms,

trying to get back on

my chin,

my love handles,

my belly,

my brain.

I spray them with

all-purpose cleaner,

dissolve them back

into the crevices.

I go to the scale,

weigh myself,

and some of the pounds did hang on,

7 of them.

I think about this for a long time.

At first, I feel the desperate rush

to find a new copy of The Diet Book.

Then I feel the compulsion to eat something sweet.

I walk into my room,

already cleaned,

my desk spread full of drawings,

markers, and graph paper.

My shelves full of books,

a small clay troll holding ten-sided dice

and a framed drawing

of Elysium leaning on her silver sword.

I think, a few weeks ago,

gaining some weight back

would have felt like failure,

like I might as well just give up.

But it’s different now.

I don’t give up.

I don’t.

Because it isn’t just

about filling up on food.

Inside my skin

is the beach, and the sand,

the redwoods and pond water,

the feel of a kiss, wet on my lips,

a mountain climbed,

and fog forever,

boogie boards,

and sleeping mats,

stories and stories,

and real

friends.

None of it

heavy water.

Just me moving forward,

finding my own story.

I look in the mirror

near my desk,

pull up my shirt.

I see the slight bump

of my love handles,

the extra space

of my slight double chin,

but I also see how I look

different, and it’s not just

about the weight anymore.

I am

more myself than ever.

I can’t control everything—

my father, or Lisa, or anyone else—

but I can be healthier,

I can take care of myself,

I can be myself.

I’m okay.

I am

me.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to all the “real-life” people who play a part in this work of fiction, standing up and standing with me through some of the most difficult times in my life.