My Friend Emily Wierenga Writes Today:

A story of her own

I bring banana loaf to her house, the red wagon behind and moon in the sky above.

I am a writer. The story is my lifeline, and me not knowing this more than as a mother. As a woman with bloody show and labour pains and the wrench of love and the laying down of life and that first cry, you’re changed forever and it’s a change a man will never understand. And so you tell your story to the women around you, and you see the light in their eyes, the light that says they understand.

I bring banana bread to my friend and the red wagon behind, the moon above, and she’s standing in her garden with a smile. I pass the loaf and ask her about her day and the smile turns to tears. It was a bad day, she says, this single mother. She’s alone in her parenting, in the guilt that follows every mother’s footsteps, in the wondering and the praying and the worrying and the yelling, and at the end of the day, we all have stories to tell.

“But why do we only tell the good ones?” she weeps. “Why can’t we be honest with each other? I need to know other mothers go through this too.”

And I think of the church and the way we all feel as though we have to wear skirts and have quiet kids and husbands who put their arms around us while our grandparents pass the mints. But inside we’re all a mess. And inside, we all need a piece of banana bread and a garden to weep in and the grace of an ear.

The moon slung above and the red wagon behind and me, going home—one of thousands of women with a story of her own.

(Be sure to visit Emily on her blog: Imperfect Prose and follow her on Twitter for updates.)