Kate Bernadette Benedict Glimpses of the Body in a Modest Household Enchantment! I followed my daddy to the bathroom and what I saw so thrilled me I ran out proclaiming the good news to a roomful of aunts and uncles, all smiling. Glee! There behind the bedroom door— my mommy with no clothes: a great tall precipice of flecked skin gleaming. O come here, daddy, I cried, I have such a surprise for you! And he let me tug him towards her and there was laughter and no shame. Shame came later. I grew older and the grownups hid and I too was grateful for long robes, striped pajamas, the purdah of Turkish towels after a bath. Glimpses of the body became a worry. At summer tables, the rolls of flesh my shirtless father flaunted overawed me. If I came upon mother unhooking her bra, I ran from the room, stalked by the specter of her long, low breasts. And when one day she came upon me as I dressed for school, I clutched the quilt to my skinny chest and screeched: Go away, get out! Isn't there any privacy in this house? And, Love, I am still a modest person. That's me at the beach, camouflaged in cover-ups of terry. That's me at the gym, disrobing behind a toilet stall. Yet always I allow your thirsty gaze its fill and when you walk around half-clothed, I peep— incorrigible!— and want to see. What is this sweet delight that keeps upleaping from the days of innocence, from what unpollutable secret spring? Feel it now. Aren't we blessed? Such ecstasy! Who do we thank for this unasked-for gift, this enchantment in which our marriage moors, this glee?

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