Therapy #1

He said that he believes in connecting stories,
so after I talked about the freedom I felt in Abiquiu,
wild rebel like Georgia O'Keffe,
he asked me a question:
what does it mean for you to be a woman?
It completely stumped me.
A woman?  Me, a woman?

That night, when we drove to Plaza Blanca
to see the sunset, what I actually ended up seeing
was my silhouette in a photo Heather sent me
weeks later.  The strong shoulder,
and heavy breasts not nearly as huge
as I imagined.  An appealing curve,
the s-shaped edge of me. 

A woman?  I guess I am a woman,
though even saying that causes my brow
crunch together like pie dough. 
I told him that all I ever knew was that I was not
and would never be the kind of woman
my mother was, or her sister,
or her mother. Here, look at the legs

one foot extended, the skirts that flair
above the hip just right, the curls
placed in the hair, the hands folded,
cigarette and drink held like movie stars.
The plunging necklines, the bracelettes
walking up the arms, earrings that
draw your eye to the eyeline, and those lips,
painted and formal, saying talk to me,
kiss me, I am available to you.

I don't really know what she felt or did
with me when I did not slide into
the image of womanhood as everyone
she knew had done.  I don't remember
being rejected directly or scorned.
But I think I must have been a confusion to her,
and, not knowing what to do,
she opted for doing nothing.

What does it mean to be a woman to me?
I really do not know.  My skin is soft,
I know that.  I seek to comfort and soothe,
nurture the cubs and pull them to my breast.
That seems true too, though it's been
done in such a universal non-specific way.
Beyond that, I am stumped.
How can I be here, 49, and never even
thought about this question before?