“Mythes” by Stephanie Kaye

*This story contains sensitive content*

Everything assumes such an immense quality when you are a child. You are a seed amongst the trees – waiting, waiting, waiting – for the soil and the sun to open you up, to release you from the feeling of smallness. And in that smallness rests another seed, one of fear or something like it – a lack of agency and hopelessness. 

My parents were trees. 

Especially my father. Every morning as he would get ready to head into the confiserie, I would sit on the edge of the tub and watch him shave. To this day, I cannot feel cold without the sour, soapy smell of shaving cream filling my lungs, an association unbent by time and experience. He had this way of making everything he did seem so big, so important.

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