I am looking through old photographs and catch a glimpse of a vaguely familiar woman. She is in her mid-twenties with a willowy figure, curves in all the right places. Soft, dark curls frame achingly high cheekbones. In some of the pictures her brown eyes are played up by shades of blue. From one shot to the next her look changes. In front of a backdrop of flower leys, she wears a white and gold saree and leans in to the arms of her new groom. In a cottage garden, she wears a modest housecoat and a playful smile. Behind a table displaying remnants of a birthday feast, she is dressed in pink and, I laugh when I realize, she is flirting with the camera! But the one I will frame is a head shot, those pretty eyes shaded by large, round sunglasses while a floppy sunhat adds mystery and elegance. And on those full pink lips rest the unspoken words she would share with me. Words of love, warning, prayer, reprimand and humour.
I wish I knew this woman better. She seems to know something about walking barefoot in saltwater. Her pride in her appearance is apparent and well-earned. I see how delicate she is inside, though. Her eyes beseech the world, "Love me, please..." And now I know why she is only vaguely familiar. I just wish when she was trying to come out and play, that I noticed, understood and encouraged her.
I didn't know that I could do that with my mother.
Four days before she passed away, I looked into her sunken and tired eyes and said, "You are so beautiful." She smiled and said, "Thank you. So are you. We are the same." At that moment, I was no longer a child, but a woman looking at another woman, and acknowledging the femininity in both of us, for the first time.
The photographs confirm what I know to be true: Being a woman is sacred, expressing that femininity is vital and in our uniqueness we are equal.
We are the same.
No comments:
Post a Comment