Tiny

They call her Tiny because she was a preemie. When her mother tells the story of her painful birth – the 30 hours of contractions, the midwife who, in desperation, jumped on her chest, repeatedly throwing her weight below Tiny’s mother’s ribcage to induce contractions – Tiny shuffles her feet apologetically and looks down, refusing to meet her mother’s eyes. There is a photo of Tiny as a baby on top of the mantle, a shrimplike 2 pound alien form -- more diaper mass than child – stretched out awkwardly on a sheet of dancing pastel elephants. A shock of wispy black hair fans out from beneath a pink knit beanie, but any facial expression is obscured by the labyrinth of tubes taped to her cheeks, protruding from her nose and mouth. Her eyes are pinched shut in two faint U-shaped crescents. All that's visible of Tiny’s mother is her hand, reaching into the incubator and hovering gently above Tiny’s belly, pointer finger outstretched, willing for Tiny to grab on. Tiny, obedient even at 32 weeks, is clutching her mother’s fingertip, her whole hand barely covering a fingernail.

Tiny’s mother keeps the photo displayed prominently because she insists that the intense labor of giving Tiny life is her proudest accomplishment. She also likes to remind Tiny of her earliest and first connection, this unbreakable bond between mother and daughter -- gratitude realized even before it is comprehended. When Tiny looks at this helpless version of herself, she feels pity for this alien creature that, having arrived at the wrong time, looks so out of place in its surroundings.

This feeling of having arrived at the wrong time and being ill equipped for all the places she finds herself has followed Tiny throughout her life. It’s a shadow that she feels connected to the bottoms of her feet, which anchor her to another place. Sometimes she sneaks a wary glance over her shoulder and she can see the shadow tailing her, twisting itself into grotesque heights, dark, menacing, and ready to consume her.