Of Homes and Hotel Rooms.

“Remember, child.” My mother had told me.

And when I grew up with the rivulets running scarlet betwixt my legs and the mountains on my chest swelling, slight but apparent nonetheless;

“Remember,” she had said again, this time more insistently, looking at her daughter through eyes that had long since clouded over with cataracts. “Remember,” she had said.

But as it is, I hadn’t remembered. At least not back then. I had pushed, like children are prone to do, my mother’s advice to the back of my mind but even there only because I couldn’t discard it completely; marked it as another one of her incessant rants.

Only now, sitting here, sitting alone, yet again in another city, at another table, underneath another portion of the never-ending sky, waiting for another ‘someone’ who wasn’t to come. Not now. Not ever. Only now was I allowing myself to remember.

“Remember, doll,” she had said, the endearment always present as if to soften the blow. “Remember. Don’t expect to be a home. Some women, though their arms might be as soft as any others and their hearts even more so, some women aren’t meant to be home.

“Remember, men’s minds are a peculiar thing. Their eyes are different than yours. You might be as sweet as possible and they’d find you bitter. And when you tear down your walls and erect shrines to them, they’ll find you scary; intense. Remember that you will tear down your walls, dismantle your roofs and disrupt your own floors only to put them back together, carefully and meticulously but they will not find you fit to live.

“Remember that though they might compare you to the stars and even to the gods, their blasphemous praises are mere keys to your heart. Remember that you aren’t a home but, in fact, just an unattainable hotel room. Exclusive. Not for everyone but desirable by all.

“Remember that it’s not your fault. Remember that some women aren’t meant to be home and if someone calls you home, remember not to believe them. Though they may claim to find God between your legs and a ball-room on your back, remember that these are easily discard-able.

“Remember not to fall from grace for these mortal men. You are aloof. Remember that you are no one’s home if you are no one’s first choice. Remember who you were before they told you that you were to be home.

“Remember this, child, when you’re alone and your heart is breaking. Remember that there is no one who will fix it completely but you. Remember that those who do ‘fix’ it will only do so until you’re a novelty.

“Remember that you might never be a home and remember what you were before they told you that that’s what you were made to be.”

Perhaps it was the perverseness of the prophecy or perhaps I had never fathomed that I’d have to concede to my solitude. But I never cared to heed my mother’s words before. But tonight they’re all I remember.