Skipping Stepping Stones

In a perfect world

The love received from a child’s mother and father

Transcends into the perfect ability

To accept and provide

Love to a spouse.

And then to a child.

So the cycle may live on.

I have been told

I am at the brink of that.

The age of transcendence

From a girl to a woman.

To a lover. A wife. A mother.

Standing here

In this doorway

To the “rest of my life”

My eyes remain fixated

On the endless horizon before me.

Feet planted in womanhood,

Not far from girlhood.

Remembering fondly who I was.

Wondering who I’ll come to be.

A suitor once met me here.

I reached out to introduce myself

My fingertips raw from clawing

What was in the midst of leaving me.

I offered him my story like a plea deal.

I said,

Oh, yeah.

My father is dying.

It is sad. I am sad.

He kissed my fingertips And took the deal.

He stuck around,

Until he didn’t.

Until he could no longer meet me in my grief.

Until his survival instincts

And procreation requirements

Closed in on the space he once held for my sadness.

Apparently sadness

Does not equate with being

A good lover. A good wife. A good mother.

To him,

To most,

These things are not the subcategories of being a woman.

They are the stepping stones toward becoming one.

And my sadness had me stuck in place.

Standing here

In this doorway

Without a lover to wait on

Or a father to give me away,

I bask in the woman I am on my own.

From this vantage point

I skip stones across the horizon.

And catch a glimpse of the scars on my fingertips

Finally healed from clinging on to a man

When I had to let my father I go.

I accept the reminder of who I was

As a girl. As a daughter.

I imagine

Who I’ll be as lover. A wife. A mother.

I watch as the stones

Dance across this

Uncharted, Unpredictable Horizon

With a softness and fortitude unique to each.

And I accept the reminder of who I am

As a woman.