I thought I was a princess. My mother thought she was, kept telling me I was so I believed it.
Daddy went to work, mommy princess built a home, baked on Fridays, created a garden and picked me up from school. Daddy took us to the drive-in on Saturdays, forgot the birthdays and prize giving but it never mattered, it was not his job, he was there and would never let me fall.
I was a princess mommy. Daddy went to work, princess built a home, created a garden, baked on Fridays and collected my children from school. Told daddy about the birthday’s, went to the prize-giving alone, but it did not matter, it was not his job, and is always there to catch his children when they fall.
He watched me fall. I think we dropped each other, and I know I was not there to help him stand when his legs were weak and his heart fearful. My heart and dress are tattered and this ‘letting go’, ‘begin again’ and ‘new windows’ stuff wears thin when the I lost the map and the castle lies in ruins.
The princess wallowed for many days. She tore through the forest in the dark, and all she had was the sack, the one the cat jumped out of and scratched at her fiercely before fleeing into the night. The cat, the story, the fairytale had vanished.
But as it goes, time came to visit, the baby boomer got a job, looked at the lines on her face, forgave herself and found a path that led to a small cottage, a stream of consciousness and some breadcrumbs. No more cake. Crumbs. These she scattered around the neglected garden. Growth began.
Could the princess thing have been a cruel illusion after all? Would the princess be able to live with all the broken fantasies, the cold realities, the new possibilities?
The truth was in the small cottage, in the tiny garden, with the lines on her face as she stood in the tattered ballgown. And she realised …
I am not a Princess. I am now a Queen.