Venus de Milo

It was my first visit to Aunt Lily’s. I didn’t know she existed until a week ago. It took ages to find the place, and I ducked desperately into the bathroom almost the moment I arrived. There was a home-made sign on the bathroom wall: Godesses Have Hips. Next to it was a framed photo of the Venus de Milo, armless and not particularly hippy, either.

Aunt Lily waited in the living room, thin and defintely not hippy herself. She offered me some iced tea, “Now that you’ve drained,” and plucked nervously at the hem of her shirt. . . .

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Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

4 thoughts on “Venus de Milo”

  1. …let’s get to know one another. Our conversation lasted long into the evening, and into the next week. And at Sunday tea, with the awesome power of one who is dying, she disclosed what I had feared. But that was one month ago.

    And now, amid the antisecptic smells and rubber tubing of the hospital she looked up at me. “I was more voluptuous in those days,” she said. “The stage demanded hippier, bustier women. And they called me Venus…the Venus de Milo.”

    I held her thin, grey hand and simply smiled. For fifty-seven years this woman, this black sheep of the family, this goddess, had pretended to not be my mother.

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