Little girls of a certain time and place
invariably dreamed of being princesses –
always beautiful, always loved.
The natural birthright of such a one
is the arrival of the prince on his white horse.
This paragon, honor-bound,
would sweep her away to happily ever after:
a life of unending adoration,
free from want and fear and uncertainty.
I was no different, even though the mirror
told me otherwise.
It’s a hard myth to kill.
To this day I peek around corners,
hoping for hoofbeats, hoping for rescue,
hoping for love.
It never comes, none of it.
From dawn to dusk I labor
covered in ashes and soot,
begrimed with the grit of life.
I know myself to be that which was never fabled –
the unredeemed and unacknowledged
handmaid of the hearth.
© 2012 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
Myth and reality collide.