The Erasure of a Pencil Mark

a pedibus usque ad caput
from feet to head

Years ago I pressed my body up against the bedroom door. My mother held a pencil tight against my scalp, moved the point back and forth and penciled a mark on the door.

She opened her sewing kit, removed a tape measure and said, " You grew an inch since we last measured. Soon you'll be taller than both of us." My father's height stopped at five feet three inches, two inches taller than my mother. No one in my extended family exceeded five feet four inches.

Every six months another pencil mark appeared on the door until I reached a stopping point when two pencil marks overlapped. For years I wore that height. In time I realized that I spent a good deal of time staring up at people.

When you reach adulthood there are no more pencil lines. Even a yearly check-up doesn't include a height check.

Today was different. The nurse said, " I almost forgot to measure your height."

So I stood on the scale and she drew out a long metal tape measure, released it until it reached an appropriate stopping point.

" Stand tall," she said, " shoulders back."

With those words she placed something on my head-- just like my mother's pencil and announced the result.

" How many inches?"I asked.

" She responded."

I lost an inch, a real loss that you can't replace.