My mother’s magazines are bright portals to new worlds. Women wear fantastic clothing, their faces dazzling up from the pages.

My mother reads me the new tips.

“This season, women need whiter teeth.”

I look at her teeth, their yellowing from years of smoke.

“Another trend is plastic fingernails. Now would you look at these?”

On the page in her lap, a pair of slender hands holds a glass of soda with a straw. The hands have long, bright red nails, shining, luscious, more perfect than anything I have seen before.

I look at her hands, their nails, which are short, unpainted, best for working lemon against wall.

The sun begins its fat drop into the horizon. A thin sadness leaks from my heart for her.

“One day, we’ll have white teeth and red nails, too,” I say.

Then I invent us like that in my mind: Our teeth gleaming, our nails red. I picture us beautiful, unknotted.

LATER, IN MY BEDROOM, I SHED MY clothes and take inventory of my body in the long mirror.

I am thin at the arms and legs, wiry brown hair down to my shoulders. My eyes are brown, flat. My jaw is large, my ears too big.

My breasts are small, and there is a bit of flatness before it begins. Just below my ribs, the skin changes. My knot is strained and stretch-marked, shining and hard.

I used to gasp when I saw it, but now it is my familiar. I have seen my mother’s, too, when she is changing, through the crack in the door. Her breasts sag over her knot. We are different in that way.

The cool air pushes in through the window and runs over that secret skin, a relief in that touch.

AT TIMES, I IMAGINE IT ALL DIFFERENT. Bright visions rush over me, scenes from a golden life in another world.

VISION

Alone, I shed my clothes and take inventory of my body in the long mirror.

I am thin at the arms and legs, brown hair down to my shoulders, bright eyes. I have small breasts, and just below my ribs, my stomach is flat.

I run my hands over my belly, skin smooth as a stone from a river.

The cool air pushes in through the window and runs over my skin, a pleasure in that touch.

I DIG THROUGH MY MOTHER’S OLD MAGazines in the attic. I flip through the old trends, admire the smooth women.

Tips are written in bold fonts:

YELLOW IS THE COLOR OF THE SEASON
EAT LESS NOW WITH THE ROCK DIET
NEW NAILS, NEW TEETH, NEW LIFE

In the stack, I find an old science magazine. My eyes stutter over the cover.

My mother is younger, holding me in her arms. The title says THIRD GIRL BORN KNOTTED.

Inside, there are pictures of my small body slick with blood and then clean, swaddled in white cloth. My knot is at the center of each photo.