I am my father’s daughter. It’s in the shape of my face and the way my eyes crinkle up when I laugh. My height and the way I run like an ostrich, that’s all my daddy. It’s the way I spin whimsical stories, and in the way I settle down with a creak of my bones to listen to others tell theirs. Or the pills I take like clockwork every night to manage my bipolar disorder. The capacity I have in me to take off in a cloud of dust. Or the way I return, my heart bruised but my eyes clear. I work with my hands, too, although he built things and I ease pain. Even now, certain songs give me goosebumps and I excitedly point it out to my husband, just like he did with my mother. It’s the grief from his loss that I still carry around, this heavy necklace that makes my head hang low, always looking at the ground instead of at the sky. How Jimmy Buffett cracks me open and I end up sobbing on the floor, wishing for his strength. It’s the way I try to emulate him: an ocean of all moods and colors.
I am my mother’s daughter. It’s in the way, when we bend our heads together, you can’t tell us apart: Goldilocks hair and the curl of our lips, the way they lift in the same way. It’s how I carry fairytales with me, like she always knew they were the alchemy I needed – to somehow sustain myself. It’s me in the kitchen at 11pm deciding to make cookies because my sweet tooth is aching and my soul is tangled; I remember the way she made peanut butter fudge and how my sister and I fought over who got to lick the spoon. It’s the moments where I miss being curled up, safe and quiet in her dark womb, with only the murmur of her voice and her hand on her belly. It’s in car rides when we both sing our hearts out, believing for a moment that we could be Broadway stars (before we turn down the volume and hear ourselves, laughing until we cry). It’s the way I try to feed that motherly presence within myself, whispering secrets to souls I’ve yet to meet.
I am the moon’s daughter. I remember the dream where she stole me away to a Fey Court, and nothing in my life was ever the same. The way I tried to chase that fantasy, running until my feet bled, turning to all the wrong places. It’s the way I wish I was with her, above this world, looking down on the wreckage with a sort of abstract grief. Because living here, now? It hurts. And sometimes I wish I could be apart from it; loving, but distant. Only sometimes.
I am the daughter of Venus. I was looking for love the day I tore into this world and blinked into the light, an endless squalling at the world, the pain of no longer being safe and held. So, I wanted to find someone else to hold me. To make me safe. I thought love was about princes battling briars and thorns for the privilege of kissing you awake. I thought love was supposed to be a battle: dangerous and wild and unwieldy and intense. I fought to love and be loved. When I at last heard Venus’s voice, it was just a quiet breeze that smelled like myrrh and jasmine. It spoke of loving me. How she loved my big thighs, the freckles across my nose, the gold ring around my eyes, the way I wore this goddamn stupid heart on my sleeve, the way I kept trying to chase her when she was already there. I am her daughter, when I love myself.
One day, maybe, I will have a daughter. And she might inherit my father’s smile, and my mother’s hair, and the moon’s distance, and Venus’s soft recognition. She might feel the same agony I did when I was growing up, before I knew myself. She might come to me and weep about the world and fascists and racism and misogyny and bigotry and people who preach love then do the opposite. She might long to escape, the way I have. She might try to, the way I did. But my daughter, if you ever become, know this:
You are their daughter, and mine.
And more, you are yourself.
Rage.
Pound your fists.
Light your candles with intent, and smile as the flame burns to nothing, carrying your dark (and light!) wishes to the stars.
Dance with me, laugh at my uncoordinated hips, my lack of grace.
Cry, when you need to.
And know that in all of this, I will always see you.
Because you are their daughter –
And you are mine.
Maybe.
One day.
Elisabeth Writing 