Everyone called me Baby Face until I was sixty-five years old and mapped in wrinkles and spider veins. I could trace valleys down my neck and marvel at the canyons that widened at my collar bone. I still had the Baby Eyes, they said, but they were hooded, now.
It started when I was eight and the grownups that filled our kitchen every Friday night with their deviled eggs and flaky biscuits would say, “Now, where’s your oldest one at? The one with those rosy cheeks and pretty, pretty eyelashes.”
“She’s the oldest?” someone’s husband would ask, setting down his glass of wine because it was a serious question, and he wanted the answer.
“Eight-years-old.” My parents would blush. “She’s just taking a little long to grow out of her baby face.”
But it wasn’t a phase, so I was left with bloated cheeks until all the life drained out of my body through the tips of my fingers.
Published at Goon and Darling Do Flash Fiction on July 24, 2012.