I haven’t yet met the woman
Who hasn’t had her heart bruised
By another woman’s punching words.
Whose happiness has become a hissing balloon,
The hopeful air it once contained
Whooshing away because of another woman’s sharp attack.
I haven’t yet met the woman
Who hasn’t also been the giver
Of these injuries;
Whose insecurities and fears
Have led her
To use hostility as her protection.
We have all been the wounded.
We have all been the wounders.
But now, after decades of practice
And learning,
And re-learning,
We can be the women
Who make room at the table.
Who stop our searching for
The Perfect Friend.
Who fill glasses with drinks
And hearts with courage.
Who pile plates with bounty
And load our friends with reassurance.
Who pass bowls of steaming soup
And pass on the treasures we’ve learned,
Not hoarding the gifts for ourselves alone.
Who don’t ask our friends
To be our healers,
But only ask
That they walk with us
Along the way.
Who create time for each other
Out of the packed calendars
That have no empty spaces.
Who celebrate another’s song
Without demanding
That it harmonize with our own.
