Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I liked being beautiful. I liked having people stare when I walked into a room. I liked that men fell for me in feverish or stealthy ways. I spent some time being sure that I knew where the exit was.
I got up one morning, sweat poking out of my pores, and threw the covers away forever. I remembered, once, hearing my mother and grandmother hushing each other so I wouldn't hear them talk about the "change of life". What would that be, I wondered. Turning green? Growing feathers?
My pheromones no longer woke the dead. I alternated between a flamenco state of mind, castanets at the ready, as if I could still seduce. And high diving into icy pools, seeking the cool ritual of renunciation as a holy ceremony.
I was set free. My hormones jumped out of my body, never to return. I was emancipated and found my tranquil self. So glad to rest from cues. Not being seen, not on view, I got used to it. Without a bitter taste.
No dye or rouge can pinch my cheek back to its youth and here's a day at last when I put the covers back, make the bed that stays so neat, a hollow at my side filled by the cat.
No sorrow. This long vacation from passion stirs memories, which may be mine or some I've seen in a movie or two, because I can't tell if that beauty up there is me or some other star.
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