What’s the nature of the crone, the wise woman? She’s still alive and that becomes her crowning glory. Whether black, brown, or white, she has survived.
Female, she—raised to bow to men, to serve, to act demure, and represent herself as one of these: daughter, wife, or mother. Truth is, being a “good girl” or “good woman” means nothing to those who don’t really care. They use these names to make her comply.
She aimed high, getting an education, paying the bills, keeping her home clean and secure; while he led his own life, his every tiny contribution celebrated as if a gift from above. Why did she allow it?
She craved the couple’s promise of earthly completion and female success. She bent herself pleasing a mate, losing self-respect, his respect, and her hard-earned money.
She stayed upright, seeking and speaking her truth, causing fights. Why have you changed? he asked, refusing to listen, trampling her heart. She lost her mind in the confusion. What was the use?
“Forgiveness is the secret to a long marriage,” her grandmother once said. And so she did.
She had three men in turn, two dead now from cancer and the last one, ailing and estranged. At each blowup, she forgave, giving them yet another chance. Without exception, they saw what they wanted to see, grabbed what they could get away with, and placed her on a pedestal until she took a fall.
She wanted kids or had kids; it was all the same. They blamed her lack of devotion to them on her fierce need for motherhood. It was an easy button to push, considering how hard she’d worked to get her two. What had they expected?
They were narcissists to her co-dependence, her deep lack of self-esteem stemming from a patriarchal raising. She would never be enough; she would never be male. Bright ambition bubbled just beneath the surface of a woman too tall, too smart, too steadfast to speak in her own her defense. Too terrified to look around the room and recognize a good man’s attention.
Maybe it’s too late now. And that’s okay. Men in her age group seek women a decade younger, a nurse with a purse in high demand. Many can’t live without the catering they’ve come to expect. Older and wiser now, and fully a crone, she wants no part of sharing her home with a smiling taker who asks, “Do you cook?”
She likes having time to think and write, without someone telling her she needs to rest, she has no time for that now and can write later. When is she going to be done? Doesn’t she want to take a walk or start dinner? Doesn’t she want a man?
Well, maybe she doesn’t—at least not in her home. Maybe as her last decades roll past she gets to think and do what she wants, without censure, without having to compromise with someone who doesn’t know the meaning of the word. With compromise, no one is fully satisfied. Maybe it’s time she takes care of her own needs first. And yes, she knows how to cook, but she doesn’t have to.
