the habit of being

I started staring at children when I was pregnant, and didn’t stop when I wasn’t anymore.

On the R train, there is a little girl with very light brown hair and skin. She’s propably three years old, and has her ears pierced, and her hair, in a ponytail, is longer than mine. She is twirling around the pole you hold on so you don’t fall over when the train leaves the station, and she is screaming. I can hear her through my earphones, and she keeps on twirling, and does not look back at me. It is unusual for them not to look at me. Her father looks at me instead.

The girl’s mother has a floppy straw hat on. I used to have the same hat. She is bending over to look at the map of the subway system on the side of the car. I can see her panty lines through her thin cotton dress, but that has nothing to do with my nausea.

I don’t like the little girl because she is too loud, and this is the most unhealthy I’ve felt in months. I shouldn’t be reminded of myself, of my unkindness, like this.

* * *

The naked girls in the changing room at Jivamukti have uncommonly beautiful bodies. I stare at the wall so as not to stare at them. Two my back, one says, “you dropped your bra.”