Being
Women Together
My mother and I were
women together. Well, okay, I was only her girl child for some of those
years, but I quite precociously grasped one evening when I heard the plentiful
and ebullient family next door having a barbecue that lasted roughly from noon
until midnight the summer of my eleventh year the disquieting contrast between
those noises and smells and the quiet dusk of our own kitchen.
“I’m lonely. I want
more,” my sullen gaze telegraphed itself into her awareness.
“I
understand, one hundred percent” the squeeze she gave my hand – two short
squeezes and a long one that felt particularly sincere and protective –
transmitted.
So – this was womanhood,
was our own version of womanhood anyway – a cloud of dissatisfaction palpable
as a self-separate entity, a runty bunny rabbit, white with those gruesome red
eyes.
