What I want to write about is wonder and joy and amazement and innocence and sparkly mornings and little warm hands, my bookshelf and the sprouts on my windowsill and my old, old friends that suddenly seem new, the yeast in my freezer and the starter on my countertop, the culture in my loaves, the hope in my heart of hearts, the companion I miss already and the soulchild I imagine, and how that will never end up as I hope it will, but somehow I trust that it will be perfectly right anyway.
I am mother and teacher and baker and cleaner. I am exactly what I am supposed to be: gentle, overly-invested, worrisome, tired, hot-tea-blanket-and-an-armchair, maker of many and overseer of much, listener, fragile, just-too-much, small, unable to help myself and unable to help my own self.
I am woman.
I am father and driver and answerer and breadwinner. I am what is expected: unyielding, drawn, simply-too-busy-for-this-shit, overcoat and loafers, heir to the throne, keychain-carrier, de facto banker, president, confident, winsome, experienced, better-than, unreadable, and big-red-button presser.
I am (wo)man.
What I want to write about is a paradox. I am neither, and yet, I am both.