When a woman from my sober group
confessed to me that she felt invisible,
I did and didn’t feel that—the tension of
aging out of the civil hold society still has
on its women. The burning question is not,
should I drink, but how do I stay relevant
as my body changes, without having given
birth or given away my name and even still,
to be known is the ultimate disobedience—sitting
with my two breasts out, carving space in the
remembered world. I wanted more for my own
mother, even if that meant not having given
birth to me. That’s what I think of when I see
a particular wedding image of her pitched on
a small green hill, carving space against a stark
blue sky, her veil caught in the wind as if to
say it knew something none of us did.
