Dear Pubescent Me,

This is a sensitive topic, I know. I know how much pain and embarrassment it gives you. I know how you avert from peoples’ gazes, maintain distance, never keep your face still. Your hands gesture and distract—all to deter their eyes from lingering. They linger and they see. I won’t even name it, because naming it makes it real and forever, and you can’t fathom living with it forever.

The women who wear athletic leisure apparel are the same women who use the thin, translucent toilet seat covers to protect themselves from the scary whiteness of the plastic seat. When there are no toilet seat covers available, they hover. These women are the same women who look at me horrified when I exit the stall.

A twelve hour shift feels like forever when you’re waiting on bad news. If you’re busy, the time might pass easily enough. Otherwise, it’s a relentless crawl. Even the most mundane tasks feel insurmountably hard.

The day after my husband brought our first batch of piglets home to our farm, they escaped. The forty little black creatures that had seemed so content gamboling in our barnyard throughout the morning had, by noon, slipped out of their fencing and assembled under the ornamental crab apple tree on the lawn.

Because I spent too long in Boston with its long and twisted streets, bikers and Priuses negotiating for space, college students converging at the end of summer, forming clusters along the Charles River, Birkenstocks in spring and Blundstones in winter. Because I was tired of texts from my mother asking if I wanted to pop out for a jog.

I hear the retching vomit and feel my breasts seize up. Even the mechanical waves of my pump can’t drown out the sick splattering on the linoleum floor under fluorescent lights. I’ve never understood fluorescent lights in schools. Research says they stress and strain, and yet they populate our buildings as if the sun might disappear one day.

“If that’s what you’ve decided to do, then go do it. But if you leave, you better know you can’t come back.”

I sat on the edge of the dining room chair as my mother stood over me, gripping the remote control in her hand, eyes blazing.

“I’m only moving to Astoria,” I said. Although my words came out smoothly, glibly even, my stomach turned over in knots.

I’m lucky. I came out as a lesbian in the wake of Stonewall. First to myself, a recent Harvard dropout cleaning houses in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1970. Then to friends, my women’s consciousness-raising group, other feminists, potential roommates and lovers, and finally, after several years, my family.

The first night it happened, all the windows of our fieldstone house were open. The air moist and still, the sounds of trilling toads filled our bedroom. I’d gone to bed at nine, shortly after the twins, wrung out from an afternoon of playing alligator on the trampoline.

When she died, I didn’t miss her, which did not seem right or fair or even biologically possible. All it seemed was true.

I remember the feeling of weightlessness after the funeral, once I was home—in my home, the one that took decades to build by scratch and sweat.

When my daughter asked if her boyfriend could spend the night, I said yes.

He and his mom had a blowout argument and she ended up telling him to get out of the car they were sleeping in. Each night, they'd park at the Walmart up the road.

A lot can happen in ten years. You lose a baby, or choose to lose a baby, though at the time, it doesn’t feel like a choice, more like a pre-ordained outcome. You spend time blaming everything outside of you—your OB, your job, your husband. Blame comes easily; it’s a ready distraction from the blame you hold close to you, like a secret: you were not brave enough, not in love with the baby enough, not selfless enough. When your water broke months too early, you panicked, you decided against hope.

I went to college in 2014. I am the eldest of four kids, thus, the first to leave home. Growing up in a Latino home meant the vague expectation of pursuing higher education. In my house, our parents said if you were not working, then you were in school. My parents were not raising a bunch of bums. Mami y Papi instilled in us the importance of working for our own. If we wanted something, we had to work for it. I learned this quickly and, at the age of fourteen, had my first, legal job.

In early March 2020, my children begged me for a pet.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have considered their request; our lives were too busy. But the arrival of the COVID-19 virus, and the departure of regular school, work, or sleep schedules impaired my better judgement. My children sensed my vulnerability.

I should have seen the signs, long before she fell so far and so hard. Instead, I just kept pushing. “You can do this, sweetie, just focus and try harder.” Seemingly innocuous words, I thought. Encouraging words, right? Wrong.

Before bed, I text myself a reminder to write in the morning about the time I visit him near Crested Butte in October. It is my first understanding of how early winter comes to the mountains—the marvel of fall suddenly brought to its knees by the first violent winter storm.

I sit on my couch as social distancing becomes a hashtag and debate whether 7:30 pm on a Saturday night is too early to wash off makeup. There are things I can do in my apartment. I can finish the jigsaw puzzle I started months ago or read an unread book in my library.

I drove Bennet to the airport as he left our six-week-old marriage for his nine month tour of duty in Vietnam. He was dressed in a clean starched Army uniform. I was dressed in dread. After waving to the plane until it was a tiny dot in the overcast sky, I walked back to my car feeling as if he had died.

"You are a solitary," observed the attorney I had hired to draw up my will. She had asked me to list the family members and friends to whom I would consider leaving my worldly goods. Both categories were skimpy. Thus by her lights, my very small circle of significant people in my life qualified me as a "solitary," which would present not a small challenge in disposing of those aforementioned possessions.

“Hi, I’m Bunny, how are you?” she said. Her name caught my attention. “Bunny” is “an informal name of a rabbit, especially a small, young one” in the dictionary. I looked it up; those days, I carried a pocket size English dictionary with me.