Today I am wearing my mothers opinions. A top that hides my arms but is tight around my waist. 

We were on holiday, getting changed to go to the beach. I felt her eyes on my bikini-clad body before she said, ‘You are so lucky to have that waist, Isabel’, hands now skimming my curves, ‘You need to make sure you never lose it’. She doesn’t say anything about my arms, but she moves her fingers up and squeezes them around my biceps. I swallow the lump in my throat, disrupting the silence we were stood in; the way her eyes avert from my body makes it more than clear that the skin bulging around her hands is disgusting. 

The top is red, long sleeved, and matches my shoes. I grab a tote bag packed with my keys, a book, and headphones, before slamming the door behind me. Each step down the street is matched with a jingle from my keyrings, one from every city I have visited rubbing against each other – Paris clinks with Copenhagen, Athens dings Toronto. It is a 5 minute walk and the rattle accompanies me on my journey until I put my headphones on.. 

Squinting behind my glasses – my bad eyesight a gift from my father – the sun intrudes into my vision as stripes of light. I am retracing the steps I take with my friends every time they come to visit, always wanting to show off the churchyard down the road. My palms automatically clench the ends of my red sleeves into their warmth, pulling them further down my arms, and keeping them there until I enter the park. 

 

A bench on uneven concrete slabs is the first I come across, moss is creeping up its legs and over its arms. It is engraved in the memory of someone called Kay, who is described as a ‘loving wife, mother, and grandmother’ on the silver plate nailed to the back. Kay’s bench is in front of a bush of jasmine flowers, which remind me of my own grandma and the scent she kept her house filled with. Jasmine candles burning on her windowsill, jasmine growing in her back garden, jasmine perfume on her neck when she’d hug me. 

The only world I see is through the eyes she gave me. As a child I left all of our plans with a new book to read and armed with arguments to use on my mum so she would let me be vegetarian. She took me to my first protest as a teenager, a pro-choice rally. From politics to recipes, from relationship advice to literary opinions, she taught me everything I carry with me. I sit down and open my book, wishing I could tell her about Kay’s bench, knowing she would have loved it too. 

I look up, distracted from reading by a noise around the corner. The bike comes first. Copper rust has scratched across its frame and fabric tape is fraying from its handlebars. The hand leading it past me belongs to a tall woman with a head full of grey hair, purple reading glasses placed on her nose, and a maxi skirt covering down to her ankles. A plastic bottle of milk hangs from one of her fingers and dangles down alongside a stack of bangles adorning her wrist. She adjusts the bike to lean against the bench opposite me before taking a seat next to it. She slips off a purple rucksack as she sits down and a thermos flask and mug that matches her purple accessories appear from inside, and she retrieves a tea bag from a pocket. Steaming water pours from flask to mug, then she opens the milk she was carrying and adds a splash to the cup of tea. In my admiration, my mouth has fallen slightly agape. I forget about my book and watch her sipping from her mug until I need to leave. 

The walk home feels lighter. I notice how beautiful the sun flares are, and I roll the sleeves of my top up, treating my arms to the warmth too. I am met with the chiming of my keys again as I let myself back into my flat, wondering what to have for lunch, desperate for a cup of tea.