The Women

An evening of expected rain. Out the window clouds lifted

their skirts and the wind poured in. We were the mothers

lingering over the dessert tray, placing the sweets in our

mouths, one by one. We were the soothers and givers,

keepers of children and men. Those days, our skin bunched

up at the bra line, eyelids gathering like crinoline as it folds.

Yet standing there at the table, there was nothing in the world

we were in want of, not even the loves that had escaped us.

Whatever we suffered, we let go of willingly. To know we

were not the same women as before did not pain us. When

the others spoke their voices swept over us like bees hovering

over lilacs. Outside, lights strobed over the Hudson; we watched

a white boat riding the crest of a wave, headed to sea. We

felt an ache we realized was happiness, almost unbearable.