the farmhouse door opens and someone steps out into the yard, her hair
is a wiry grey and shooting up all over the lace
she’s wearing raggedy blue overalls with a cardigan over them, she’s
barefoot, in this lace? in this mud? in this weather?
she walks towards her, she’s old, bony, looks robust, is tall without
being hunched, quite fierce, is this where Penelope gets it from? her
imperiousness, as she’s been accused of in the past?
the woman is unmistakably, ambiguously a light brown, the sort of
colour that could lace her in many countries
this metal-haired wild creature from the bush with the piercingly feral
eyes
is her mother
this is she
this is her
who cares about her colour? why on earth did Penelope ever think it
mattered?
in this moment she’s feeling something so pure and primal it’s
overwhelming
they are mother and daughter and their whole sense of themselves is
recalibrating
her mother is now close enough to touch
Penelope had worried she would feel nothing, or that her mother would
show no love for her, no feelings, no affection
how wrong she was, both of them are welling up and it’s like the years
are swiftly regressing until the lifetimes between them no longer exist
this is not about feeling something or about speaking words
this is about being
together.