There’s a picture of her
from second grade, next to a
little boy, physically twice

as big as him. They’re both
designing with colored wooden
tiles a singular polygon.

The little boy’s shape is a dense
tiny mass of green and red tiles,
making a shape not unlike

a jagged edged doormat, or a
splotch of spinach stuck in one’s teeth.
Next to him Christy is lifting a

tile into place thoughtfully, her eyes
focused, her lower lip set, and her shape
on the table is a bursting

sunflower of yellow pentagons,
green rhombuses, blue squares, spangled,
large, unabashed.

I showed this photograph to
her once and said, “Christy, this is
who you were, back then:

you were untroubled by the
fact that you were, quite naturally,
bigger than everyone else.”