The women of my family wear the softest armour: the most tender of cotton dresses, the most delicate chiffon scarves, the sweetest of smiles.
The women of my family are the strongest women I have ever known - even the gentlest of aunties has a spine of unbent steel.
It is only when I visit first one, and then the other, of my elders in hospital that I see them terrifying vulnerable: their soft, impenetrable armour removed; their elegant dresses and beautiful scarves gone, leaving them defenseless in hospital gowns and worn pajamas.
I feel ashamed of myself, almost - I want to avert my eyes, to not see my elders so old, where once I had seen them as simply, eternally, elder without aging. Knuckles grown swollen from arthritis; wisps of hair, before always meticulously tucked away beneath their scarves, suddenly seen, wilted, falling out of cotton hair caps; shoulders trembling where once they were so firm; flashes of pain in eyes that I had only ever looked into and found beatific serenity.
The women of my family wear the softest armour, and I want nothing more than to drape them once again in their gentle glory - to be reassured by the whisper of silk against my skin when I bend to kiss their cheeks; to touch the dignified wool of their cardigans, embroidered with thread as strong as the unseen filaments of their own spider-silk wills - enduring with beauty no matter the decades of marriage, of children, of immigration, of losing and finding and building and slipping away and too many changes, too fast.
I wish I knew the women of my family better. I wish I knew their stories the way I know their food: pineapple steaks and spiced chicken pastries and strawberry butter scones and melting moments butter biscuits - family favourites flavoured by their histories, unknown to me.
I wish I knew what lay under their soft armour before age and illness lay them bare to me; I wish I knew what weapons they carried into their daily battles; I wish I knew what enemies they faced, within and without; I wish I knew how they became so soft and strong.
The women of my family wear the softest armour. I wonder if I will inherit their grace and their delicacy and their iron wills and gentle touches and their deft hands at making biryani and mithai and the memories of their homeland and family still so far away.
The women of my family wear the softest armour. I want to bury my face in their scarves, draw their dresses over my head, feel their steadfastness wrap gently around my bones, touch my fingertips to their grace and draw it in, inhale their dignity into my muscle memory.
My armour is hard and brittle, not spider-silk-soft or chiffon-kiss-gentle. My armour is stiff and dented and has the hard colours of too-bold-lipstick and dark-denim-jeans. My armour is biting humour and anger ill-contained.
The women of my family wear the softest armour. Perhaps, one day, my armour will soften too.
It is only when I visit first one, and then the other, of my elders in hospital that I see them terrifying vulnerable: their soft, impenetrable armour removed; their elegant dresses and beautiful scarves gone, leaving them defenseless in hospital gowns and worn pajamas.
I feel ashamed of myself, almost - I want to avert my eyes, to not see my elders so old, where once I had seen them as simply, eternally, elder without aging. Knuckles grown swollen from arthritis; wisps of hair, before always meticulously tucked away beneath their scarves, suddenly seen, wilted, falling out of cotton hair caps; shoulders trembling where once they were so firm; flashes of pain in eyes that I had only ever looked into and found beatific serenity.
The women of my family wear the softest armour, and I want nothing more than to drape them once again in their gentle glory - to be reassured by the whisper of silk against my skin when I bend to kiss their cheeks; to touch the dignified wool of their cardigans, embroidered with thread as strong as the unseen filaments of their own spider-silk wills - enduring with beauty no matter the decades of marriage, of children, of immigration, of losing and finding and building and slipping away and too many changes, too fast.
I wish I knew the women of my family better. I wish I knew their stories the way I know their food: pineapple steaks and spiced chicken pastries and strawberry butter scones and melting moments butter biscuits - family favourites flavoured by their histories, unknown to me.
I wish I knew what lay under their soft armour before age and illness lay them bare to me; I wish I knew what weapons they carried into their daily battles; I wish I knew what enemies they faced, within and without; I wish I knew how they became so soft and strong.
The women of my family wear the softest armour. I wonder if I will inherit their grace and their delicacy and their iron wills and gentle touches and their deft hands at making biryani and mithai and the memories of their homeland and family still so far away.
The women of my family wear the softest armour. I want to bury my face in their scarves, draw their dresses over my head, feel their steadfastness wrap gently around my bones, touch my fingertips to their grace and draw it in, inhale their dignity into my muscle memory.
My armour is hard and brittle, not spider-silk-soft or chiffon-kiss-gentle. My armour is stiff and dented and has the hard colours of too-bold-lipstick and dark-denim-jeans. My armour is biting humour and anger ill-contained.
The women of my family wear the softest armour. Perhaps, one day, my armour will soften too.
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