The woman looking at me is beautiful; wild and free with a spirit that does not worry or care of what other people think. She is neither young nor old. Her hair is wild and unruly; cascading in gentle curls till her hips. Streaks of silver run through the jet-black strands, like ripples of water flowing in a stream, high up on a mountain, on a bright sunny day. Her eyes are sharp and sparkle with mirth and mischief. Her mouth is curled in a smile that is both amusing and amused. Her high cheekbones are beginning to show a softness. Her cheeks have filled up and the dimples show only when she is laughing.
She is naked. Her olive skin glistens and shines as sunlight dances through the curtains. Her body is soft and curved. Stretch marks line her thighs. Her stomach is gentle and rounded showing signs of motherhood and an acceptance of the silent process of ageing. A small scar runs right above her pubic hair – from an operation she had when she was young. Her legs are strong and muscled; her arms slim and toned. She turns around, looking at herself – admiring, caressing, criticizing; feeling the curves of her body, the softness of her skin, the ingrowth in her left leg, the pimple on her forehead. She runs her fingers over her lips, past her beauty spot, up to her cheeks and past her eyebrows. And then she looks at me.
I look back; petrified. I am not meant to be here, sharing this private moment with her. I feel like a voyeur and yet I cannot look away. I am mesmerized.
Unsure of how to approach her, what to say, I remain silent – looking at her tentatively. Her gaze is confident and inquisitive. She stands tall and strong. I feel small and meek. I look down, trying to avoid her, trying to break the tension in her gaze. Yet she does not look away, challenging me. “Look at me,” she says gently. Her voice is like silk, soft and inviting.
I gather the courage to look at her. She is smiling. “Do I scare you?” she asks. “Yes, a little,” I answer. “Why?” She is curious. I breathe in deeply and slowly release.
“I haven’t met you in twenty years. You have changed,” I say. When we last met, we were equals. Two women who were questioning the world, breaking societal structures, challenging and fighting. We were so young and so angry. We carried the heavy burden of generational shame passed down unknowingly from mother to child. We were misunderstood and mistreated. And yet we persisted. United in our belief that only through dialogue and resistance could things change.
When I see her now, I see a woman who has come into her own – unashamed and at peace with herself. What a journey she must have had to reach here. The fire in her belly has been replaced with the warmth of a hearth. She is at home, in her mind, body and spirit. She is not perfect and she accepts it. Her flaws are as embraced as lovingly as her beauty. We are no longer equals.
She waits for me patiently to gather my thoughts.
“When we last met, remember what you told me?” I ask. “Remind me,” she asks softly. I sit down next to her. “You told me that one day we would fight our hardest battle. It would be different for both of us and we would know it only when it was over. It looks like you’ve fought yours, and won,” I say looking at her.
“Yes,” she replies, smiling. She folds her legs and rests her chin on her hand. For moment she is not with me. “My battle raged for two years. It was a storm like nothing I have ever seen. Dark clouds and fierce winds. Anger and restlessness. The wolves howled and the glass rattled till I could bear it no more. I screamed in anger, consumed by my rage and own sense of self. But when I screamed, all I heard was my scream echoed back at me; like massive waves crashing on a small sinking boat. I went to a very dark place where the only sound was my thumping heart. And in that deep dark void, I saw a soft beam of light. It was so faint that I thought I had imagined it at first. But as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw a path – a treacherous uphill climb. I could have stayed in the void you know. After a while the darkness becomes a part of you. But I was curious. Where did the path lead to? So, I started climbing. I almost gave up – twice. My feet were cut and bruised and I had no one to support me, encourage me or speak words of love. It took me a year to reach the top. And here I am. Sitting next to you.”
“How is your battle?” she asks me. “It’s still raging,” I respond. “And I am not sure if I am at the beginning, middle or the end.”
“It doesn’t matter. You will know when it ends,” she says. I sigh, feeling the weight of it all. Not wanting to let her go yet, I continue.
“You’re beautiful and strong and weak and fragile – all at the same time. You have embraced all that you are in both defiance and love. You are not the girl I met twenty years ago. You are a woman of strength, resilience and substance, who wears her scars proudly. You are both an enigma and a clear glass of water. You have the spirit of a lone wolf and yet you crave the company of others. You are your own prey and your first love. How does it feel to be you?” I ask.
“I am what you see in me. I am a mother, wife, daughter and child. I am bound and free. I am the will of a thousand women and the lonely voice of one. I am you,” she replies.
I look at her startled. This woman who has been my friend, my voice of reason, my support and my critique, is but an echo of what I make her.
“If you are angry, I will manifest a rage to frighten the gods. If you are happy, I will dance with the abandonment of a child. If you are sad, I will sit next to you for as long as you need. And if you are lost, you need only look in the mirror. I am your most loyal friend. I am you.”
“I am glad I found you, again” I say.
“Took you long enough, my friend,” she replies.