Battered women have a tenseness to them. Huddled in a circle at the monthly support meeting, our shoulders connect, stiff as treetops. Smiles appear unexpectedly, winter sunsets, bitter more than beautiful, but I come here every week to listen and to heal.
“That was over a decade ago,” the old wounds on my arm form a star when I speak. “Can’t watch the sky without remembering that belt buckle.”
“The clouds were thick that night, but it didn’t rain,” another woman shares. “I remember thinking even God’s too mad to cry.”
“I’m still regaining myself,” the next whispers, swaddled by the security of the other survivors.
“Night’s hardest. I hear a creak, shield my face.”
I dress in their stories, patterned and purple as the night, a swimmable distance now that I’ve learned to wade my way through the darkness towards a new dawn.
msjadeli is host tonight at the d’Verse Poet’s Pub. Our inspiration for 144 words of prose is a beautiful line from “When We Sing of Might,” by Kimberly Blaeser: I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night. Join us.
Artwork by Irene Lee. Be sure to view her amazing gallery.