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I felt, at that age, if time could put lines on my face, I could put them on my body.
“Your dress only reaches your ankles,” she whispered. “I have always been a scandalous woman,” I whispered back.
You are allowed your hurt. And anguish and joy can be in the same house without crowding each other.”
She becomes a mistral, ever twirling into oblivion. She hunts thunder and vanishes in it.
That is when I knew I would never not love you. That is when I knew I would be in love with my wife for the remainder of my winters, until my death and if spirits and ghosts exist, then I would also be in love thereafter.”
You are worse for your wear and better for your bravery. Age looks good on you, girl. You wear it well.
“from my pillory to my priestess.”
My mother says all women are mothers in different ways, that we all give birth, just not all to children. She says some women give birth to revolutions, to movements, to sanctuary, to art, to brilliance.
