My women are big women.

The kinda women that hold me tight with big hugs,

linking thick wrists behind my back;

tall women that tower over me,

strong and proud like maple trees,

maple leaves big and wide like their smiles,

as real as the lips that stretch them.

Deep rooted women,

size 8, 10, 11 shoe wearing women,

grounded in family women.

Three generations of big women standing around a deep steel pot plopping pieces of pulled dough and chicken into a Thanksgiving favorite –

chicken dumplings, yeast rolls, turkey, pink salad,

“drinks are on the front porch!”

kinda big family dinners.

My women are strong women.

The kinda women that hide tears from each other and

especially from our men;

big hearted women

reaching their long piano fingers out to immigrants learning to read,

attaching themselves to patients with less than six months to live,

in classrooms with high-schoolers looking for models,

and helping 10 year olds memorize their weekly Bible verses.

My women are big bosomed women.

Big back-slapping hugs

pressing me close against soft fleshy pillows,

with murmurs of

“You know I love you”s

in my ear.

I prepare my sister for her filling out stage -

late for me, late for mom, late for mamaw -

but big in the end.

I tell her to look to our beautiful women.