The Only Mother Left Standing

(an excerpt from the forthcoming Mothers of Magic)

A Letter from the Old Grandmothers

Our last daughter stands with her hands outstretched, her eyes downcast, veiled, and seemingly compliant. Beneath her whitewashed robes it is hard to tell if she has any body at all. Her belly is flat and her breasts undeveloped. Her underarms do not stink and her womb does not bleed. Perhaps she is so young that she has not even yet begun to bleed. She is a good girl, a pure and holy image of submission to the divine.

Once people made images of their grandmothers’ bodies to hold in their hands. They wanted to remind themselves where they came from. They loved our breasts that had suckled generations of children, our heavy bellies, our strong legs, our wide and drooping buttocks. Each of us was fashioned from the memory of a real woman, a beloved grandmother, old and soft and wise. These people, your ancestors, looked upon the naked bodies of their grandmothers not with disgust but devotion.