disappearing acts

Winter has crept in two months late

and the perfectly coiffed women

have pulled their puffy vests out of storage

their thin legs encased in washed denim

and riding boots that have never seen the stirrups of a horse

I wear leggings and oversized tunics

in hopes of conjuring some sort of disappearing act

for a quarter of the calories that cling like static to my skeleton

Two years ago, me and weight parted ways

only for it to creep back in with every bite of comfort

The cold means I can hide and hopefully shed this cocoon

of hormone-induced fluff

not quite marshmallow

depression and worry made flesh

When my joints flare

I take to the tub

filled with salts and herbs

a witches brew to heal me

back to halfway

Living like this

makes a bad actor of me

turning down invites

or trailing behind

a husband who never ages

or lacks energy

The salts pick at the pain deep down

the knots go lax

and the tingling in my fingertips lessen

I listen for the soft footfalls

and the sleek arms that will lift me

bundle me softly in rehomed hotel towels

and say something funny

the high-pitched words puncturing the air

but  jumbled

as the tub drains

I appear to only him

belly heavy and round-faced

a soft angel of some sort