Eggs
Standing at the corner of the kitchen at my aunt’s easter afternoon I come to revelation.
The same five women frantically scurry from cupboard to sink just as my heartstrings do.
Frail and fragile these closed mouthed women bend elbows and knees young to elderly women sick with hands filled with vibration.
A sensation grand within my soul is held back by a soft spoken mouth lined with the color of desperation.
To be heard to be noticed to be praised to not bring the wrong kind of attention to myself, I think to myself..
This vibrato in my grandmothers fingertips I notice must be result from decades of internalizing her clenched fists.
Maybe not. She may need no ligation but her prostration leaves me weak.
Weaker I melt when I see awkward impatient faces sitting front row refusing to lift a single finger nor bat an eyelash except for me.
We can all clearly see, yet all that is offered is grotesque sympathy.
I pull my mother aside asking why.
Why do the same five women clean up and cater every family occasion? Her grin speaks for her.
Now you know what it’s truly like to be a woman in this world she says.
How come no one says anything? Go ahead and try! I stand in my own way and I know it’s my own fault.
My excuses paper thin.
But I-I have no authority I don’t want to be rude to them.
Usually I say whatever is on my mind but for now I remain angered and tongue tied.
The fact that her wisdom is shrewd kills me inside.
I just wish that she was wrong and that I had the courage to speak up, but the only words I can muster is “Can I help?” and grab myself a dish.
Now there are six.
The same five women frantically scurry from cupboard to sink just as my heartstrings do.
Frail and fragile these closed mouthed women bend elbows and knees young to elderly women sick with hands filled with vibration.
A sensation grand within my soul is held back by a soft spoken mouth lined with the color of desperation.
To be heard to be noticed to be praised to not bring the wrong kind of attention to myself, I think to myself..
This vibrato in my grandmothers fingertips I notice must be result from decades of internalizing her clenched fists.
Maybe not. She may need no ligation but her prostration leaves me weak.
Weaker I melt when I see awkward impatient faces sitting front row refusing to lift a single finger nor bat an eyelash except for me.
We can all clearly see, yet all that is offered is grotesque sympathy.
I pull my mother aside asking why.
Why do the same five women clean up and cater every family occasion? Her grin speaks for her.
Now you know what it’s truly like to be a woman in this world she says.
How come no one says anything? Go ahead and try! I stand in my own way and I know it’s my own fault.
My excuses paper thin.
But I-I have no authority I don’t want to be rude to them.
Usually I say whatever is on my mind but for now I remain angered and tongue tied.
The fact that her wisdom is shrewd kills me inside.
I just wish that she was wrong and that I had the courage to speak up, but the only words I can muster is “Can I help?” and grab myself a dish.
Now there are six.