The Woman Who Leaped

"Passions are tricky things." She told me. 

He had wanted her to leave all of her spaces. To tear away from the soft edges, the carved ridges, her gentler corners. But how could she? How did he expect her to follow him into the wilderness of a new country? 

I met her not too long ago near the wood and the saddles. She sort of swayed when she walked, careless and free. The outcome of choosing herself all those years ago, I rather think. 

She had questions collected and stores in pockets. Questions she had forgotten about, like crumpled tissues and paper hidden deep in old pairs of jeans. She was twenty once and life was different then. I wonder if the freedom she chased once upon a time became the refuge she thought she'd seek today. I wonder if the freedom was worth the chatter. How much could she really know at twenty years of age? 

After all of this time she never fell away from the soft edges and kinder ridges of metal gates and old wood. I watch her open and shut them every day, watching the old barn paint chip away from time to time, another reminder that time is ticking silently. I wonder if she finds comfort in that in the same way the earth rotates, life moves onwards; in that way she is never left behind. 

I wonder if motherhood was a freedom she ran away from or a chain so violently torn. I wonder what it all means and so we walk together and I wait for her to find her words. Her voice that speaks so easily and pronounces so freely. 

"I couldn't be expected to give all of this up." She looks to the ropes and the saddles, the dust and the hay. Her words come as she narrates her recollection. Her memories presented like artifacts, each collection stored behind glass, forbidden to touch. Her fingerprints barely visible, barely staining her past. She gently lifts each memory, careful not to drop anything. 

I hope she always speaks so freely. I hope she believes all that she knows. That motherhood does not define a woman - not how she is one but whether she is one at all. That there are those who will listen to her and look for her when she is lost or tired. That she is a daughter, called by name to the softer and gentler corners. That if she looks closely, those corners will open up and widen. That the narrow path leads to life and that it is her hearts to grab onto. 

I wish you could hear her laugh, so completely stainless and free. The horses turn their ears to her as she walks by, her voice familiar and safe. I admire how outspoken she is, quick to notice, quicker to speak up. She lives unashamed in her freedom, and I hope it always stays that way. I can hear her voice from far away, her laugh from even further. 

Though I suppose it may have sounded different if she had followed him. Even more so if she stayed behind him. 

I only wonder if we would have seen her. 

I see her now. I watch as she closes the gates. I notice her exhaustion and she follows the horses, as the sun colours her face. I hope she recognizes the corners with shade, the ones that wait for her to catch her breath. The greener ridges, the quieter edges with water.

Freedom doesn't have to be so sacrificial. I hope she looks up and sees it, given to her so freely, so gladly.