The voices of the many “hers” clamber in my heart.
She who desires academia and moody candlelit libraries;
She craves the smell of old books to be her constant perfume and for her mind to be expanded. For endless eye rubbing and staying up past the moon setting to allow her mind to be filled to the brim.
The one who craves to homeschool her children only for the sake of watching the spark in their eyes as they learn about how a bird flies or about human resiliency throughout history as tears fall when they learn the name “Anne” or “Corrie.”
The woman who opens her home and heart through language barriers and awkwardness abound. Stumbling through the messiness of helping and learning together while learning back stories and dreams left behind.
To the soft one who desires handmade stone cottages and misty moor mornings to write whatever is screaming to be written. To feel the cool floor as she walks across the room to put the kettle on for the 4th cuppa of the day. Unbothered by the drafts blowing through the single pane wobbly windows for it brings scents of lilacs and soil.
The sexy woman who is unashamed and confident to wear what she wants and do what she wants with her husband. Fear and shame have been silenced to but a whisper in the farthest corner of her mind.
I am her. And her. And all of these women. At least I desire to be and pieces of myself live amongst each beautiful female. I crave bits of each life and setting and personality. But I am already each of them. They are a part of me, even in the dichotomy of differences. Walking contradiction that I am. Can I be them all at once? We will see. There’s a lifetime ahead of me to become more of her.
