The Painting

Robin Larocque

They write stories about people like me now In their second act, they say As if our lives before this time didn’t matter Because we were not famous or big or loud Because we spent all that time stifling our torments

Forty is when it all begins, they say This is when we can shed our baggage As if our baggage is not what brought us here They tell us to discard it now, like trash we’ve finished with Loudly let it go to free our hands for new work

I am supposed to feel free The wind over my shoulders, the air through my hair I am supposed to close my eyes when I look towards the moon To breathe deeply, as if this is the first breath I’ve ever really drawn and all the breaths I’ve drawn before were not practice for this moment

Impossible woman, they tell me Reframe your desirability, they whisper But they don’t know, I am wife I am mother I am soul I am in my first act My only story, with one end and only one beginning