A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush…
Every now and then, I look at myself and wonder how it happened. How that ambitious, big dreaming, sharp-talking, fast living self came to be what is now a quiet, restrained, inward-looking, stability-seeking mother of one.
I am a wife. I was single and carefree.
I am disabled. I was strong and able-bodied.
I am introverted. I was never alone.
I am drawn to stability. I was without regard for my own safety.
I am a mother. I only ever thought of myself.
I have established roots. I was transient, changing addresses at least twice a year.
Every now and then, I look at myself and wonder how it happened. Every now and then, I think how I would love to be her again. With her long hair, her easy smile, her quick wit and sharp tongue. Her smooth, young skin. Her glamorous and elegant clothes. Every now and then I think of her empty house, her sparse furniture, her strained look in the bathroom mirror in the mornings.
And…then, every now and then, when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, it occurs to me that I always look tired in the morning. I look in the mirror and I’m grateful for the somewhat sad slant my eyes have acquired. I’m not really sad, gravity has decided my expression. It means I survived having nothing. Having something to lose is scary as hell, but it is the bird in my hand – and she and the life she had, those twin birds have fled to the bush.