She came in, initially cheerful and jolly, her usual buoyant self. But as soon as she sat her food on the counter, slid her feet from her boots, and dropped her bag onto the floor, it were as if she was dropping a load she’d been carrying for too long. At the thump of her bag, the tears fell and her spirit seemingly began to speak for her. In control? Not this time.
Our relationship is tight, strong, and withstands any and all storms. If we sat still long enough to recall what we’ve experienced as classmates turned best friends who’ve transitioned into family, we’d be able to fill books with tales that are epics. Even now, we often sit in my apartment with soft soul music playing and blackberry merlot wine filled glasses, and we reminisce, happily, about the lives we’ve lived thus far. We take with us no regrets or grudges – only ourselves. And only the knowledge that we have each other.
From her lips came the explanations, experiences, and words that I’d been too fearful to share myself. All there was to do was to nod in agreement. This wasn’t one of those moments that demanded that I hold her and allow her tears to soak my shoulder and her cries to be muffled by chiffon shirts and pearl necklaces. No, it wasn’t one of those moments. This was a grown up moment: let her tears fall and her breasts catch them and let her be frustrated. Let her realize she’s worthy of more and of better things, better experiences and better moments. But in order to get better we have to suffer a bit. Learn, a bit. Be upset and scared, a bit. To be frustrated and angry, lost and dazed, a bit. To wonder and question self worth when self worth has been shattered to bits and pieces like broken glass on concrete floors. Yet, life begs of us, challenges us, to pick up the pieces and create a new canvas. It was one of those moments. It was a time to let her be her. To let her see who she’s grown and evolved into and to appreciate this woman whose existence is all new to her – to us. Let the little girl, naïve and boisterous, clueless and inexperienced, be laid to rest.
I stopped me so he could be. So that he could find his niche in the world as it exists. So I cradled his dreams in my bosom like an expecting mother cradles her belly to let her creation knew she is here, to protect its existence. To ensure that it’s grand entrance is loud and clear, safe and protected, nurtured and loved unconditionally.
This here is the solo that most women have sang at some point in their lives. And we, now full and grown women, now realize how much has been postponed so that we too could sing this song.
It’s a surprise that I still have my sanity. Life took left turns when it should have yielded to oncoming traffic, forthcoming problems, and preconceived notions. Yet, I stayed. And so did she. We felt that the cause was worthy of an ongoing fight. But what to do when the battle is not worth guns then roses, not worth tears then sweat dripping and pore opening make-up sex therapy? What to do then? What to do when he breathing makes your skin crawl and your eyes flutter in frustration, when to hear his keys jingle at the door and you instantly become a full blown pragmatist, expecting the worst when you know you deserve the best? What is a woman to do then?
We stayed. But because we stayed and fought and battled out relationships that had ended months and sometimes years before we’d caught up to the heart of the matter, when the end finally drew near, we shielded our hearts, our eyes, our very existence, yet, we still didn’t know what was coming to us.
So now, we face each day, as works in progress.
We wake each morning feeling better than its predecessor. We allow our laughter to travel from the pit of our bellies to the nape of our necks so that the world may hear us, so that our presence here is known and forever etched into what used to be. We fight now and we fight daily and constantly and notwithstanding help, to decide what is best for us; trying our damnest to figure out the matters of our hearts and not that of others.
We once again are blank canvases waiting to be splurged on, to have tales written onto and into us so that the draft may be torn to shreds and required to begin anew. We go into each day, alone and bare, naked and new, ready and waiting and wanting new experiences. New ideas and thoughts that allow us to say “I have” instead of wanting, dreaming, or thinking of things we want to do. We do now – for us and therefore, for our futures, for what’s to become, for what is to be excluded so that better may be included.
The journey for sure has not been the most adventurous; nor has it been the best, what we wished and anticipated. But it’s been a journey that has warranted us to give thanks and to mature, to understand and comprehend, to work beyond and towards – to be grateful for who and what we have become. And for these adventures, we understand that with each day we are given another chance to live and to do better, to become women we weren’t the previous day, the more we understand we are nothing more than works in progress. Anxious and awaiting canvases, drafts – waiting for new experiences to rip us open so that life may sew us up again and place it all on repeat.
~Theresa Clark