There are no good reasons and plenty of good reasons for how tired your & my bones are. We both know about sleep deprivation (years-long) and too much busy. I see you standing above the chasm that we straddle across womanhood and motherhood and selfhood. The Chasm seems endless, in fact: Deep, dark, black and full of the scent of the fear of the fallen.
There's a Perfect Mother in there, somewhere in The Chasm. She's listening to her children without glancing at her cell phone. That Perfect Mother already put up the summer clothes. That Perfect Mother's in The Chasm now – her time is over, spent.
In The Chasm beside the deconstructed Perfect Mother lies the Ultimate Wife. She's long changed in her cotton panties for something more patriarchally terrific. The Ultimate Wife always keeps the house neat. Unfortunately, the gleaming lemon scent from the wood polish doesn't cover up the stink of the repression that still looms on her skin.
The Chasm holds more icons to dying perceived femininity then we can count. There the very cells unravel and unite, finally, resting, finally, home. This is where these myths of perfection belong – in The Chasm.
You & I, we stand here atop The Chasm – real women, imperfect – and hoping we don't fall in.
No wonder we are tired. We're putting to rest eons of should and lifetimes of shouldn'ts. It's in to The Chasm with all of these rules about our roles. It's exhausting, building a future for the feminine race. I am tired at the thought of it. And yet, this is our work.
We are climbing out of the madness of female oppression that is generations long. Our exhaustion is a culmination of this – our bodies are healing the wounds that are embedded in our very DNA. That is what passes between our eyes at the early morning drop offs, that is what it means when I nod my head. I see you.
This is the day of the dead. Welcome to the coven.