Who was the first fat woman you loved? For me, her name was Ruth. She was soft and generouswith her body, by which I mean she hugged me when no one else was there to cross an armaround me. She would let me hug her. When I was exuberant. When I was sorrow. When I wasscared. Before and after I’d done the wrong thing. With Ruth, the answer was always love and morelove. When she hugged me, I felt luxurious. As velvet. Adorned in head-to-toe velour, I was notafraid to be seen or held. I was grateful not only for Ruth’s fatness, but for how she carried it.Carried it. Words that were regularly spoken to me as a child. As an expert carrier, I was grateful forour discourse of bodies. For the outer petals and composure of Ruth’s mature flesh—I, theawkward shoot, all stalk and burgeoning. The flash of acceptance between us was a creation story,an invisible home I carried on my back long, long after . . . I wore her absence like a heavy magician’scloak. Yet, I do not ponder her whereabouts. For even as I hold myself today I feel her glow, a darkchiffon. Her glimmer, a velveteen shine. Who would I be if Ruth had never hugged me back intomyself? I wonder about that girl, half-bitten by toxic masculinity, already half gone down the block,steps beyond the open. Wading back into what the world would have heartlessly imagined for me . . .Ruth, first confessor of my small secrets and trespasses. Ruth, second carrier of my burdens. Ruth,who demonstrated her worth by protecting mine. My breath so steady in her arms. Ruth,who chased after that half-hardened girl with the bloody rock, sharpened by her own hand.