I have been in your arms before but I do not remember. Your voice was the music, your rocking was the motion I needed to move my world. Your aroma filled me up and it was the most natural thing in the world, the tranquilizer I needed and I could never replicate since. You were my universe then.
I stand in your arms now, and you stand in mine, feeling unnatural. We move on to somebody else’s music, notes that can never find their way into my being like your murmuring did, heat that sounds hollow and falls short of replacing the warmth emanating from your body once upon a time. And you fill my universe now.
You gave me my official admittance in the sisterhood by granting me this dance . I broke, gave in and accepted my age, the desperate pleasure of being a woman amongst other women, an uncool older lady amidst more uncool older ladies whose loins gave birth to cool young daughters watching with horror their mothers going crazy. Only I have no daughter. But I have you, in my arms tonight, a reminder that there is still somebody who cares, and who is willing to dance with me, no matter how ridiculos it might look to other people.
I know you do not like looking ridiculous. As a matter of fact, it is torture for a prim and proper lady like you. Yet, tonight you dance proudly, accepting your role and conducting it with dignity. Like you, the other women rejoice with each-other, a day without men, a day to let one’s hair down and act like the merry matrons that they are, a day of finding that lost feeling of sisterhood even to the horror of their offspring who one day will be grateful for the strange woman to woman dances they saw their mothers commit faithfully every March 8.
Why does this day even persist? Why do women put on their high heels and knee high hose, squeeze into iron and ivory corsets and spandex, put on their make up and dance with each-other? Why after abhorring it since I was old enough to hold my mother’s hand, I am now dancing with you in my arms? I could have just bought you another apron or home appliance. I am also sure that this is not what the original women protesters intended when they started protesting all around the world.
Maybe it is so uncool and unnatural, that it has become the ultimate act of rebellion of our own dear mothers. Maybe it exists to show me how much I am alienated from my own mother, and that it takes a dance to show me how much I miss her touch and warmth, even though I see her everyday. Maybe it is a way for me to embrace womanhood and finally convince myself that I am getting mature.
Anyway, happy March 8, from a woman to another woman, from a daughter to her mother, from a world to a whole different world.