More Woman than Stone

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I sit on leaves of grass like the dew of morning and look at a statue of Mary– immaculate mother. For everything that she symbolizes, I can’t shake the feeling she is just stone. I feel the weight of that heavy load in being a woman, weighed down with the years of me.

I left my family behind, again, with a sense of relief– 28 years since breaking into the world like a thief and I realize I am that little girl no longer. I picture her beneath the boughs of that redwood forest stretched a mile behind the house I was raised in, forever looking for patches of blue through shadows of kaleidoscoped branches. There are no redwoods in Kentucky– just awkward adolescence and an overwhelming stifling of past. Can one transcend their past?

I find myself doing the dishes to pinpoint a moment– I want to be grounded in the present. I feel the warmth of the water, the gentle cleansing of the soap, the light heft of the sponge. “Thank you for your hospitality”– I was born a caretaker;  I write these words with care– they carry me. More woman than stone. Please? I am washing myself of my youth.

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