A Woman’s Love

by Laura

Rambling thoughts this, and every, day. Measuring time in cups of chamomile tea and doses of ibuprofen as I learn that the healing process cannot be rushed. I listen to music and drift, hoping that Mark Knopfler’s voice and a guitar will take me someplace just far enough away to ease the sting of reality. How many times can a person listen to “Sailing to Philadelphia” and “Prairie Wedding” before the magic wears off, I wonder.

“Everyone needs a wife,” my mom used to say. I’ll broaden the statement. Everyone needs a woman’s love. I now believe this more than ever. A mother, a sister, a true friend. I’ve never had any female friends. It’s not any kind of rule I set for myself. It’s just the way it goes. I never seem to click with them. Lack of common interests maybe, always preferring harder music, darker comedy and more brutal books than the women I meet. I’ve never had a manicure, couldn’t care less about fashion, wouldn’t watch an episode of the Real Housewives if you put a gun to my head. I suppose I’m a little gruff and unfiltered, but I like that about myself and don’t intend to change. In any event, that has left me with no women other than family. I had my great-grandmother Victoria for 19 years. My grandmas Joan and Rose until five years ago. And then no one but Mom, my one true confidante, my soft place to land. As much as I love the men in my life, there are things they just don’t get, even the gay ones, and when they let me down I’d turn to my mother and we’d bitch about them together. She had all those classic feminine qualities, nurturing and gentle. She was all I had, but she was enough.

And now, no woman loves me. The weight of those words is enough to crush the breath out of my lungs. I have a daughter, so maybe someday…. if I wait long enough and if she turns out right. Then maybe. But for now…

I tried to have the kind of conversation with my father that I would have had with mom, just a hint of one anyway, and he shut it down. “I don’t want to hear about it,” he said. You don’t talk about people or relationships with my father. He won’t tolerate it. He’s an engineer. If you want his company or conversation, you have to ask him how something works. I’ve done this once or twice, just to have someone to talk to for a little while. You can’t ask my father how he feels about something. You have to ask him about torque and gaskets.

And my husband has that remarkable male ability to listen to me pour my heart out and simply leave the room. If pursued, he’ll say, “What do you want me to say? I can’t do anything about it.” Well, DUH. How about just staying in the room while I cry for starters? Or making eye contact?

Hey, Mom, just me. The boys are all being assholes again. Yeah, I know. I know, I know, but it just pisses me off sometimes. “That’s what I’m here for,” she used to say. I know, Mom, but now you’re not.

It’s been one month.

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