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Standing just outside the door,
in a t-shirt to the knees, impossible
to hide the subtle beauty beneath.
She waves goodbye to him,
her delicate fingers absently twisting
a strand of hair, fallen from the rest.

She moves about the house,
straightening up the mess
left in the wake of two children,
three and five, little devils,
running, screaming, moving in
where quiet used to reside.

She pulls something out of the freezer,
plans dinner, writes her shopping list.
She changes her clothes, looks into the mirror,
to find the face of a girl, too young to be a mother.
She gathers up the kids,
wrestles them into their car-seats.
I watch as she drives away.

Her life is a dance,
a slow, steady thing,
that on the surface seems simple,
like her neatly pulled back hair,
and her perfectly paired outfits.
I try to imagine her as something different,
I try to imagine her as an animal,
What species she would be,
a gazelle, or maybe a fragile bird,
but the more I think,
the clearer it becomes,
my neighbor, the housewife, is a lioness,
a poised and patient hunter,
who moves with the steady diligence
of a mule on a rocky trail,
but whose eyes sparkle with a knowing,
an overlooked strength,
a stealthy wisdom,
that I can only hope to possess.

Learn more about this author, Sarah Williams.
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