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Sport 26: Autumn 2001

2

2.

I liked the way my grandmother used to put it, a nice little woman she was. She explained to me, telling the story of my life through her little black eyes, that I was just too scared of being born. That I tried to hold on to my mother's womb both with my hands and my feet. That she kept pushing out. And that I was born into this world, complete and perfect, but without nails. No fingernails, no toenails. I would have liked to tell her that I was not really scared of crossing the threshold. That the reason for me to stay in there was to be able to swim in the pool my mother had built up for me in her womb, enjoying its warmth and comfort forever. But it is true that I left my nails behind in the effort, and I didn't really want to spoil her story. You don't hear many good stories nowadays.

My mother does not seem too happy about having my nails incrusted embedded in her insides. Every day before I leave for school she stands at the door with her hand on her stomach and reminds me page 172 of the continuous pain she endures which she then relates to the effort of raising a daughter as a solo parent. I think she is just exaggerating anyway; she has taken after my grandmother in her taste for the dramatic. But I believe her when she says that it would be great to transfer the nail-scratching pain to my nonexistent father.