palmfire2 : terri carrion
t h e d a y i s
t o p p e d b e i n g a d o r a b l e
t e r r i c a r r i o n
I stuff my cheeks with soft, buttered Cuban bread, sip Tang and ask my
mother about my dimples. I’m seven and curious, but mainly fed
up with strange gringas pinching my face and shrieking, "Oh, how
adorable!" Particularly Mrs. Hobbs, who boards the bus at Seville
Street on the way to St. Mathias for mass, reeking of Jean Nate body
splash and dressed in too much powder blue.
My mother clears the table and tells me my dimples are marks left by
the steel forceps, giant tweezers, the doctor used to yank me out of
Later that morning, when the bus reaches Seville Street, I sit up tall
in my seat and smile. Mrs. Hobbs wobbles down the aisle, blue pleated
skirt diffusing the morning light, her cold arthritic hands slowly reach
out for me, fingers uncurling, her face bloated with delight. I stand
up and announce that my "adorable" dimples are dents from delivery,
scars of birth, "I was plucked out of the womb like a splinter."
Mrs. Hobbs gasps, looks at my mother who sits beside me, clutching her
purse, not understanding a word of this English. She backs away from
us, zigzags and bumps into arm rests then drops into a seat near the
front of the bus and never says another word to us. Ever.
Years later, in Teen Magazine, I read that dimples are fatty deposits,
something like "cellulite of the face."
© copyright 2004, terri carrion, all rights