Cedar

The trees, now missing their blossoms, enclosed this new home. The women have come from afar, each bestowing their fears and aspirations. I come confused looking at how the past has brought us here. I come to the place where the water-filled buckets I carry are no longer as heavy. Their strain doesn’t pull me back down to the depths. No, now it tests my strength – our upheaval of the doubt that lingers. Whether or not my feet shift side to side, it eyes me curiously. My hands clamp with sweat holding the bucket’s handle. This sensation arrives and departs briefly  as does the cigarette smoke catching in the wind.
The trees berated with summer heat are my home now. Words effortlessly tunnel underneath their roots and take form. I come to think that the women here are real. They are unapologetic if the world cheats them. The world has dog – eared cards and the felt table stands no chance against our fists. Our fists that are not only maternal. Our fists that ball up in our hearts, when we speak with our silence. Our fists that lunge into the oppressor, when our silence is not the tool to challenge the fool.
I come home and place my shoes at the door. Their soiled appearance doesn’t make me frown this time. I have come into battles shaking, with my sword. I have come into entire brawls without my weapon removed from its sheath. I have come to the place that hovers above us like clouds, its presence not as taunting. I come home where the trees plunge through the soil, their roots grab us by our hearts.
We go further than we know.
We go as women who tell stories of how we have been wronged. We go as women who drive something wild – something free.

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