A Ghost of Powder

On Southern summer days, I think about bosoms. We don’t use that word much anymore, likely because no one wanted to have bosoms when we were young. The word sounded like the purview of our grannies and aunties, the opposite of perky, the jiggly place where grown women stashed folded bills for safekeeping. We invented “underboob” to avoid having bosoms once it became our turn. It’s our turn now.

I think about bosoms on days when the sun will try to evaporate all the water that composes us. And we will sweat everywhere, including our bosoms. The swelter engulfs us the moment we open our doors. We will smell like the worst of outside unless we take precautions.