Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.com, is a US citizen currently living and writing in North Vancouver, Canada. Her fiction has received three Pushcart Prize nominations. She has also established the Glass Woman Prize to honor passionate women’s voices. Currently she is working on a novel called "Tango."
Fall 2012
Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 3
Poetry Fiction Translations Reviews
Beate Sigriddaughter
Niki and I agreed that it wasn’t a burden at all being partly divine. Only the strictly human parts made for hardship.
Imagine a goddess, joining her lover at night, then rising from her rosy-fingered bed at dawn, putting on eternally unruffled robes of splendor, taking up her silver bow, the quiver, and gracefully gliding into the day.
Then picture instead the hasty selection of garments from the closet when a mortal decides to spend the night with her beloved. Can’t wear the same thing to the office two days in a row. Do I have everything now? What all did I need to do tomorrow? Toothbrush.
“But you can always use mine!”
Is it Tuesday? Then I must take my checkbook along. And a pen.
“Would you really lend me a clean white blouse?”
‘Cause I haven’t had a chance to do my laundry in ages. At least, thank heavens, we’re the same size. And isn’t it a good thing that I always wear clogs? They go with everything. I’ll have to have the heels fixed soon, though. Comb. No, I better take my brush.
“But I’ve got a brush at home!”
“Yes, but they say people shouldn’t share brushes.”
“Oh, come on! All lovers share brushes.”
Then the defiant stance of stepping out into the street, dressed in jeans, a long elegant skirt slung over the right shoulder. Yes, anyone who cares to take note: This isn’t a trip to the dry-cleaners. I’m going to spend the night with my beloved!
“Oh damn, I meant to take a book along to read on the subway.”
“Forget it, darling, I’ll lend you one of mine.”
“But I’m not in the middle of one of your books just now!”
Then imagine the goddess again, striding, that’s true, but never entitled to see the lover’s helpless yawn in the kitchen, the rubbing of pink fingers over morning eyes, the blinking, being persuaded, after having discovered that the stockings one took along in haste had a run in them, to wear a pair of the beloved’s purple ones. The nervous protest.
“Oh, come on, how would I look like in the office in purple stockings?”
“Ravishing, dear.”
“But positively everyone would notice!”
“So?”
“What do you mean, ‘so?’”
Mentally already embracing the moment of showing up in the office with purple stockings after spending years solidifying an image of professional understatement. Mentally already constructing responses to those who might dare to comment, with imaginary pride, Yes, don’t they look nice?
And the way of leaving the house, Niki in the door, waving her hand, still dressed in her summer sky blue terry cloth robe.
© Beate Sigriddaughter
