BEAUTIFUL...

BEING BEAUTIFUL

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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