There is a spirit, in certain women, that lives so powerfully — it resurrects my own ways.
I have loved many of such women, in my life: They are essential to my every breath.
And they always have a special talent for obeying the time clock to my own destiny, whose ticking I often fail to understand. Still, I seek them, by intuition — whenever in need of inspiration (or, of just a confirmation, really, that I am still getting it all right).
Sometimes, they reappear whenever I have a reason to celebrate. But only in the most dire of my moments, do they seem to unite, unanimously, and come to the forefront of my days as a magnificent army of undefeatable souls.
There is a woman with her hair on fire: She lives at a halfway point between the two coasts of my identify. At any given time of every day, she is an expert at whipping up a meal soon after making love; and as her lovers, we make for one doomed lot because she will not happen to any of us, again.
Instead of breakfast, she begins each day with a party. At a round table of her restaurant, she often shares a drink with her clients and her staff, late into the night. She drives fast and laughs for so long, the windows begin to rattle like an orchestra of chimes. Her fire-engine red lips are never smeared. And god forbid, she tames her hair into anything more modest.
“When in doubt — be generous,” she says. “Generous and kind.” Nothing has disobeyed her love. And no one — can overcome the kindness.
She is all that: magnificent, magnanimous, braver than the rest and always in the heart of every love.
To each — her own way.
An erudite poetess with African hair sends me postcards every once in a while, from the Mediterranean coast where she retreats to rest her skin from the abrasive gazes her beauty attracts. From a writers’ colony, with wooden cots and tables by the window, she writes to me in stanzas.
“At work,” she’ll say.
And she will mean: RESPECT.
In her profession, I have known no equals; and in the written word, she is much further than me: always ahead, as it testing the ground that I am meant to follow. She is political, on edge, and often absolute. She is a socialist in success: Others, she believes, must benefit.
Her people: They have suffered way too much. And so, she prowls, proudly: paving the way, pounding the ground. And it is worth the awe to see her never skips a step or stumbles.
“TO NEVER APOLOGIZE,” — she has tattooed upon her forehead (and she scribble that on mine).
In stanzas! She often writes to me — in stanzas, even when writing about the most mundane, like laundry or her lover’s breathing. And I watch her, moving through the world of men with a grace that is so undeniably female.
To each — her own way. To each — her own manner.
The woman that shadows all of my most difficult choices with patience worthy of saint: She has been bound to me by some unwritten, never negotiated rule of sisterhood. With her, I’m never orphaned. With her, I’m never-ever afraid; and life — is not unjust. She is the kindest one I’ve known. The worthiest — that I have ever loved.
It’s not that she hasn’t witnessed others error. No doubt, she has seen me lose my own ways, as well.
“Don’t you ever question?” I used to challenge her, in my youthful disobedience.
“I dunno. Question the purpose? The faith? The validity of it all?”
At every significant marker of each year, “God bless you,” she jots down, with a steady hand. From her lips — and from her hand — these words never acquire comedy or scorn. To speak the truth. To call each thing by its own name. She’s fine with that. But the cost — alas, the cost — she never loses the sight of human cost.
Once, long ago, her hand had gotten lost in my growing out mane. She had a mother’s touch. With her, I’m never orphaned.
“Remember this!” I thought to myself, but all too soon, I drifted off to sleep.
To each — her own grace.
My Kindness, Truth and Patience.
One gives. Another fights. The third one — perseveres.
All — in the name of Love.