Rodin Museé

Even in stone a women feels the need to shield herself. Her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, and head tucked as if she is blocking a blow she knows is coming.

Maybe she is protecting the world from herself. A deep pain that pushes at her from the inside threatening to cause her to explode into a million little pieces.

Her modesty rings inside me. I find myself waking up in the middle of the night wrapped up much the same way finding comfort in the pressure like a baby swaddled by her mother.

But I have no one there to do for me, so I do it alone. It's an existence I would claim to have made peace with, but it would be empty and hollow like a crystal vase after the flowers are long forgotten.

I'll have to take comfort in the presences of Rodins model. Imagine her not in stone, but flesh and blood. Looking out from her bowed head and long lashes her eyes peer into mine for a millisecond, letting me know I am not alone.