I came of age at West Point. With little attention/interest in appearance. Until, in the absence of my mother’s voice, a friend’s mother mocked my undeveloped breasts. A critique which thrived in the patriarchal/consumer soil of our nation and set me on a course of self-abnegation; whose claws I escaped many a time in my later teens & early twenties through intoxication. And now, filled with tenderness at the sight of my girl-self, I wish I could run back in time and tell her how very perfect she was/we were/we–all–were/always/becoming.