Forty years ago
A child was born
Into this world.

Perfect
In all ways
With ten fingers
And toes.

No visible signs
Of a birth defect
Except one.

Only known
To the child.

Not a defect
As society understands
But a greater truth.

That burns
With the intensity
Of a white-hot flame.

Removing all doubt
In the child's mind.

She takes small steps
Within the safety
And privacy
Of the bathroom.

Dipping a cautious toe
Into the waters of femininity
Testing the temperature
Before plunging head-first
Into the pool of life.

Filling herself
With the confidence
Only a young child has.

In expressing
Her desire
To be Wonder Woman.

Looking back
A brave
But
Very risky move
In a small rural Ontario village.

You know
The type of place
Everyone knows
Your name and life history
And cows outnumber people.

Gossip and bad news
Compete against each other
Like two drivers
Spoiling for a race.

Testing their speed
Spreading the news
On the local phone company's
'Party-line'.

Hostile and angry glares
Greet the child
Instead of
Open arms
And warm smiles.

If looks could....

Dimming the flame
From white-hot
To a dull yellow hue.

As the child sought shelter
By burying
This part of themselves
In a hidden corner
Of their soul.

Still
The flame burns.

Standing
Like a beacon
Lighting the trail
Throughout
The hostile wilderness
Society has become.

Enduring chronic bouts
Of depression
And anxiety.

Shed
Not a tear
For that child is
I.

Now an adult
Walking the path now
So long
Brighten
By the dim flame.

Once more burning
White-hot
Having found herself.

© 2010 Therisa Godwaldt