Don't think twice, it's alright.

the Haitians that I am friends with touch my stomach. they squeeze me and poke me. they pinch and grab. they pat me on the belly and wrap their arms around my waste. they hold on tight

I guess it's a funny thing to talk about.

And I don't.

Over the years, it's become a subconscious masking. Layered tank tops and cardigans. Jeans above my waist, and shirts pulled below my hips.

swimsuits.

We don't talk about that stuff. do we?

We talk about what's hard. we're self deprecating and whiny.

we share the appropriate hardships.

I wish I could lose weight, or I am stressed about this or that.

but what about the real ones.

that people putting their hand on my stomach makes it hard for me to breathe.

that when I ride in a car and look out the window, at the expanses of scenery, at new places, at new life, I look at the window too. My reflection, a whirlwind of trees and roads, blurry, but visible.

I look out the window in Haiti, and I look at myself.

Am I scared that I'm selfish? That I'm self conscious?

And what are the real things. That I'll never be in love again. That I'll never be skinny.

Or that I'll never be content.

The Haitians don't think twice about my stomach. It doesn't cross their minds. They grab me and squeeze me.  They kiss my cheek and run a quick thumb along my cheekbone. Tell me I'm beautiful when I wear a dress. Joke with me and flirt.

Dadi works at St. Joseph's. Happily married, raising a baby, harmless and warm, I hear his voice before I see him most times.

Isabelle, ou belle, wi?

Elizabeth, you're beautiful, yes? Ahhh bonjou belle moun. Beautiful girl.

It's true, or it isn't. It just is.

But I want to be able to breathe when people who love me rest their hands on my stomach.

I want to be able to breathe.

And I don't want to think twice about it, either.