Once in my twenties I went traveling with my mom and sister. We all lived in different cities by then, so on our way back from foreign climes we flew as far as Houston together and then hung out at Mom’s gate until it was time to part ways. Abby and I gave her big hugs and then picked up our backpacks and tromped in our hiking boots down the concourse together. Later, when I called Mom to say I’d made it home safely, she told me it was really something to watch Abby and me walk away together. She was struck by how, in a moment of unspoken accord, the two of us shifted into a confident new stride: one of chin-up defiance, shoulders squared, taking up space more thoroughly. She sounded a bit proud and a bit wistful; bemused at catching a glimpse of her girls moving into the greater world.
It was disconcerting to find myself unexpectedly seen from the outside, as women rather than as daughters. I still remember it vividly, poignantly. I hadn’t given it conscious thought before — it was a body thing — but in my body I recognized the shift she was talking about. It was the urban stride, the don’t-mess-with-me stride, the all-right-world, here-I-come stride we had learned in self-defense classes and on the streets of the cities where we lived. It came from having gotten through a few sticky situations and expecting to muscle through a few more. And it came from the confidence and joy in walking side by side with my sister in an interesting world.
That brief conversation with my mom stuck with me. It has meant that, every now and then, I become conscious of that moment when my body straightens itself up into that braced and confident stance. The last place I noticed it: leaving the oncology clinic with Valerie a couple weeks ago after an afternoon of consultation and infusion. Stepping off the elevator into the parking garage, preparing to rejoin the daylight world, I drew a deep breath and before I knew it my body had drawn itself up, shoulders back, strong and steady, leveling my gaze at the world. Game. Undefeated. When I felt it happen I gave a half laugh, rueful and grateful to my body-self, that unconscious part of me that shores me up and leads me forward. Holding Val’s hand, I kept on walking.