Gordos

Gordos

When we were 6 pounds 14 ounces, a picture was taken of us while our purple hued skin was splotched in blood, while we scream in the new air. Before we were named, our parents noted that our weight was below the national average and were hopeful for metabolisms that would maintain skinny bodies. 

When we were 165 pounds, the teeth of our cleats clenched on grass as the impact of fat and bones made us twirl until the fibers of our knee snapped. For us, the season was over. We’d wait a year for ACL reconstructive surgery. Early arthritis, grinded meniscus, and a torn ligament. After the surgery, we lost a pound in our leg alone, ten more for being bedridden for months.

When we were 227 pounds, we went to urgent care because of groin pain. The ripped condom made us think the worst. We negotiated peeing into a sterile cup and watched our red seep into clear tubes. In reviewing the tests, our doctor concluded it was just a pulled groin but warned we’re pre-diabetic.

When we were 242 pounds, we met our grandmother at the airport. We went as a family to pick her up after her long flight from Puerto Rico. It’d been seven years since we’ve seen her. And the first thing we hear is a whisper in our ear, “Gordos. Gordos. Destruiste mis hijos.”

When we were 195 pounds, our father told us while we played racquetball, “I’m not gonna let you win.” The acoustics of the room produced the best ambient reverb. “Fourteen to fifteen. You gotta win by two,” our father’s age exposed by staccato breaths. Blue streaked as we killed it in the corner. “Fifteen to fifteen. Think. Don’t choke.” We do a slow lob serve. Our father arches it too hard off the back glass. We do a ceiling shot. Makes him run back. Our father’s knee is full of rooster comb injections. He forces his right leg straight as he runs too slow. “You’ve lost some weight, huh? That’s why you won.” But it just doesn’t feel right.