A Woman
Untitled | Cadie Pilgrim | Painting
A Woman by Asha Vatave
To be a woman is to live a life upon the wings of a butterfly. A creature of the earth, she will tilt her face to the lustrous moon, her skin bathed in silver. With petal soft lips the shade of rosebuds and lashes reminiscent of a newborn fawn, her face curves into a brilliant smile. Carried gently within her mother’s arms, she is welcomed into the world, eyes saucers bearing curiosity like starlight. Unscathed by the cruelties of the earth she has just entered, her laughter is a joyous symphony, spilling from her gentle lips. Her fingers, chubby and pink, twine through the onyx of her mother's hair. She is a flower, coming forth to blossom.
Now upon her seventh year, the girl remains a solitary wildflower with the field she will grow to become. Her cheeks are stained rose, the marks left from laughter kissing her skin. Her hair has grown in silken rivers from the nurturing hands who had braided its unruly rivulets upon mundane Tuesday afternoons. She races across porcelain paths on tanned feet, stained honey brown from hours spent lying beneath the sun. Her feet falter and she tumbles upon the cool pavement. And when she is greeted by tears for the first time, the gentle raindrops cutting a sweltering path across her cheeks, the pressure of them beckoning within her eyes, she calls in a voice as soft as a fallen feather.
“Mama,”
As though she were shrouded in moonlight, hair unwoven down her back, firm hands painted by age, the young girl's mother appears. Nestled against the warmth of her mother's chest, the young girl’s voice stifles to a lulled coo, the amber and vanilla bean scent of her mother's perfume dragging her into the depths of slumber. She feels her tears being wiped away by her mother's careful fingers, French-tipped nails run through the young girl's curls, and peace appears to have been restored.
Years pass, as the sun crests the sky over and over, dawn and dusk passing through the years like a hasty spinner’s wheel. She stems from the earth now, though she's not quite sure she wants to. The young girl is hesitant to change. Hesitant, as her once smooth skin begins to mar. Hesitant, as her figure changes, age cutting the softness from within her cheeks.. She is far more accustomed to the tears that slip from beneath doe-eyed lashes, though now she pushes away her mother's saviour embrace. She finds no comfort within that amber gaze now, only misunderstanding. So, she curls within herself, hair hidden beneath candy pink sheets. The flowers have grown to wilt.
I will grow, she thinks quietly, I will change. Perhaps she is young and foolish, or perhaps she is merely a young woman being introduced to society for the first time, too old now to hide behind her mother's legs. The end and beginning of her life war through her mind, a carousel of confusion and change overcome her being. Throat raw from arguments, shoulders warm from the arms of newfound friends, her lips a roseate pout, eyes in a constant roll - she is blossoming, her petals taking shape.
Another series of dawns and dusks, she is now seventeen and quite likes to think she knows everything. Mascara feathers her eyes, round and iridescent as they study the world. Gold bangles drip from her wrists, lace covering her body. Her throat has been poured with kisses like cherry wine. Her body curves and bends from summers spent dancing, her hair a woven mess amongst the brilliance of her smile. She is unsure of whether to carry her head high or find solace in keeping it at the level of others. Perhaps there is more balance within her than before, yet that youthful rage has now been replaced with the feeling of the unknown. She stands, radiant and curious upon the precipice of the world. Her future is a vast sea before her, whilst she remains a soul yet untested to the water. The urge to be, to become, has not yet waned, she’s not sure it ever will. The young woman continues to blossom.
