The colours are changing.The silver in my hair stealing a march over the blacks,The carpet that’s begun to match the drapes.The youthful ‘tch’ of irritationMy teen makes as I ask him to thread the needle,Explain the mysteries of Instagram,Find my glasses.The eyes that flashed fire.Mriganayani, the lover said,I need some distance.Shifting the focal lengthGives great perspective.So he retreated,Into the vanishing point.The big shift is coming.As summer draws to a closeA tightening, a drying,As the womb prepares forThe Long Quiet.What does a uterus doWhen it no longer weepsFor babies that could have been?It’s snuck up on me,My eggs running low.One more baby, I should have liked.A pregnancy that wasn’t an oops.Mind you, there are things I won’t miss,The calendar, the shecup,the pms,The furtive visit to the chemistFor a pregnancy test kit,The i-pill, the IUD, the OCs, the condom.Creation. Prevention.And once, Destruction.It is hard for one womanTo wield so much power responsibly,that takes three gods, traditionally.I cannot shrink back into theAndrogyny of pre-pubescenceWhat then are the climacteric colours of my body?Is it in the freeing of my speech;My tongue has sharpened.My patience for those that judgeRuns a little thin,Along with my uterine lining.All else droops slightly,The daily 5k run notwithstanding.And there’s softening too.Not quick to anger anymore,Quick to forgive,For we are all fools for love.And what’s the English word forठहराव,Is it the pause between two notes?That benediction of silence,The preparation for the last mile,Crackling autumn’s colours underfoot.And a burst of second wind,Before collapsing willingly into Winter’s senescence.
Hema left a blip of a corporate career to homeschool her two children. She is a perennially hopeful handwork artist who writes to find meaning in the mundane and carve small spaces of silence in the clamour. When not on Facebook, you can find her at: https://youareanothing.com