
The woman of my dreams
I see a woman who’s done all of life’s chores, chopped, sliced, mothered, washed, dressed, grated, burned, painted, hammered, loved, lost, kicked, and cursed, yet contrived in some God given womanly way to have arrived in my life as a true friend. She has raised children, held children, lost children, been left by children.
She is not perfect: she’s been too hot, too cold, been joyous, depressed, ill, and very ill, warmly funny, cuttingly cold, and yet on another day sparkles like lemonade. She is the woman I want to lie beside after she has removed her flour-covered apron, content with the language of sleep, or drown in the warmth of her breasts with her body pulling me in.
I write about the beauty of love because I’ve known it, have it, need it to live in a world that can somehow justify destruction, hatred and violence.
As a writer, and with such beautiful friends here, it is obvious to many that I live in two worlds. I call it parallel living if you like, in one life I accept the world as I find it, in the other I have no place in my life for it.
I’ve been everywhere, seen everything I ever wanted. I’ve been afloat on every ocean and always look for her light calling me home. I’ve spent days lost in cities and listened for her calling. She is not a dream, not a fantasy. One day she came, out of the blue, and I fell so madly in love with her. I mean head over heels, head to toe, slap bang into the magical world of her and all she was and will be.
My dream woman.
