“We are the daughters of the witches you couldn’t burn” says a bumper sticker on the dirty Prius in front of me.
She’s got two car seats behind her like I do, and she looks a lot like me.
Definitely down with the gays.
Probably still smokes secret cigarettes behind the house sometimes.
Has a few large unfinished tattoos from when she went from being punk as fuck
To Mom as fuck.
But we are not the same.
We are not all the daughters of the witches they could not burn.
Some of us come from a long line of torches.
Some of us come from women who tried their best to cleanse the witch from us With flaming tongues.
Who attempted to shrink us;
To Make us feel pain like them.
Who did not protect us from the men they protect.
My mother forced me to mother alone, because she can’t be alone.
There’s no bumper sticker for that.
Theres no secret handshake for those of us who lost our mothers
Before losing our mothers.
I am an orphan, by choice.
By terrible, isolating,
And I have noticed lately,
That most of the choices given to women
Are this kind of choice.
We’ve been told we can have it all,
When we are really just expected to do it all.
Be it all.
Receive it all with a grateful smile.
Women have come so far, they say.
As if we have not been dragged here by our Balyage highlights.