Southern Woman

Southern Woman

In truth, she hadn’t changed much since she was a southern girl. Where had the years gone?

Still, Emily felt something was missing even though the years had been good to her. She’d gone from cute to—stately. Emily held herself well and commanded respect, even before she opened her mouth and spoke with her measured confident voice.

Her husband and child—now grown (both of them—finally!)—were all she could have hoped for. A study in manners, intelligence and accomplishment. Emily herself had a solid steadily advancing tech career—a career that held barriers for women but that she had battled through.

All was well and yet there was a hole somewhere. A pinprick that had slowly let the air out. Something was flat.

Emily gardened and listened to the birds and wind and—uncharacteristically—allowed her questioning mind to rest. As she returned to the spigot to refill the watering can, she tripped, dropped the can, and tumbled into the flower bed.

She lay there for a moment, a frog staring right into her eyes.

The world itself. The air. The smells. The frog. Her active, rushing, brilliant mind had observed what was in front of her the whole time.

She’d led an exemplary life, a generous thoughtful life. But sometimes we go too far. We need to turn it off.

Well, right now Emily had turned off her mind and surrendered to her senses. The garden was no longer a small plot of land in back of her house. It was hyper-reality.

The hole had healed and she inhaled deeply, replacing the stale air with fresh and looked around as if for the first time. Her leg ached and yet she smiled.