It must be my body.
I will start by saying thank god for this table. This one that I am sitting at by my kitchen window. This one that my grandmother wrote letters from. And paid bills from. A perch I rescind to underneath the moon of the late night kitchen light above the sink. Light that guides when lying near my lover is not enough to calm my questions. A mountain to sip tea upon. A porch on the lip of the lake.. you get it.
Where would we be without women, first of all? There was us, dancing like ribbons around her skirt. Thank god for grandmothers and every woman who’s ever made the beautiful decision to have a child. And every woman who’s saved lives by deciding not to. Women who’ve set my blood running free with love. Who’ve asked the perfect question and made me feel seen. Even women whom I do not forgive for other reasons. For they’ve made harder choices than I. Who’ve cut away parts of themselves forever because they actually can only think of the child.
Whether we are maternal or we are not, it is our nature. Women nurture. It is our survival tactic. And we certainly know what is best for the body we breathe in.
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I am faithful. I am broken from my grandmothers broad shoulders after all. And I believe in godlikeness. Where i’ve found it most (and truest) is in the eyes of a child, it’s true to me. I’ve found it in their learning and their larger teaching. But so is a sunrise in Appalachia godlike. And the image of my sister in a wedding dress in summer. Have you ever found it?
In godlikeness there exists love, sure. But I believe it is bigger than that. It is an admiration of sacrifice. There has been so many hard conversations across tables like this one I sit at now. Conversations, admittedly i’ve imagined but never had. There have been hearts that have sat and broke alone while choosing the one thing they did not choose. We would all be destroyed by the things women keep quiet, carry, or never forgive themselves for. The godlike are the hollowed that still believe. These recent bills passing are not practicing any god I know. They are only keeping women quiet, hysterical, dutiful, and in the yellow wallpaper.
It must be my body. It must be.