MY INNER CRONE
By Sara Sims
In my birthday card, “an eighty years old” is stretching her leg along a lamppost – flexible – upright – agile – serine – determined
My inner crone is dancing - stretching her legs - white tutu - silver floating over blue - silky - watery. Her face and arms are black - no facial features - short curly hair – not me at all. She’s turning - a dainty dancer - a marionette - a slow spinning top.
But, this ballerina is nothing like the crone housed in my mind
In my mind she is old – past her use by date - unloved - invisible She is prune-like - deep furrows of mapped experience - tight little mouth caused by smoke inhaled too deeply or a life sucked on far too hard
My inner crone peels off the black - her face and arms show skin. Skin that lacks lustre – floppy - no botox freeze - letting blemishes show
A black and white photo in Vietnam – she’s toothless - big smile - casting net on water. Shining eyes - unruly white hair – whispering: ‘I don’t care… don’t give a damn’ ‘Yes… that’s my girl!’ – ‘my perfect crone’
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