But let the moon appear. As though this were our first time under this winter quilt. That we could be her with golden dust in our hair and silent smiles on our full lips. We believed in princes on horses and castles on top of high hillsides where we could spin our dreams into forever. Little children at our skirts and husbands who adored us into our nineties.
Truth is men wander and children resent gold tarnishes and imagination in the end, looses steam.
All we end up with is geranium soap in a hot bath and quiet evenings with good books and simple meals. We end up with friends like ourselves who have had near death experiences on and off the field of love. Women with whom we can speak the truth and hope it won't be used to bury us. Survival for another ten or twenty years is the last gift and the only one we can count on. Survival is, I see, the last revenge.