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Wendla looked in the mirror, trailing across her newfound curves with her fingertips. How had she gotten here? What had become of her to bring her here? Un-understanding of her body, her feelings, her everything. She had awoken and gotten up to get dressed, but instead she had found her way to her long mirror, the one that showed her her entire self. Her entire body, which had changed before her eyes. The young girl could remember when she was even younger, when she was little and she could wear her favorite white dress, which now barely even reached her knees. She had grown so much, but she couldn’t understand why.
As her hands traveled back across her shoulders, hugging herself and pushing against her chest. (When had her chest become so large in proportion?) Her mind wandered to how she was supposed to know these things. Who was supposed to teach her of this? Of her body? Of the yearning it felt? Of the yearning she felt. Surely not her tutors, it was too private of a thing. Surely not her father, what would he know of the female body? Besides, it would be improper to ask a man. Her mother, however, filled the qualifications. Why hadn’t she spoken of this? Wasn’t Wendla supposed to know something like this? Something so important that had to do with her and what she was to know? Had she expected someone else to tell her? If so, who? There was no one the girl herself could think of that could.
Thinking like this was dangerous, she found as she continued on. The small girl found herself pondering, unable to stop the growing pit in her stomach. If she didn’t even know things about herself, what if there were other things she didn’t know that she should? There were so many things she couldn’t understand, things she felt as though she should. After all, she was quickly approaching adulthood, and with adulthood came understanding, right? One was supposed to know most things by then. Although, perhaps she was just naive. After all, not all adults were important people who were known for being smart, but most knew things, right? So why didn't she if she was so near to adulthood, to when you were supposed to know everything that was important to know?
Her thoughts drifted towards her sister. Someone such as her should know, right? After all, even though her mom still expected Wendla to believe in the stork, she didn’t. How could she? A child being carried by a bird from heaven? Of course not. And of course, her sister was expecting her second child and the younger of the sisters still didn’t know as to how. However, she couldn’t ask her sister, she knew that- not that she could anyways, she hadn’t even seen her in so very long as she prepared for the gift of a baby. This seemed to be on her mother, her not knowing. It made sense, she hadn’t ever liked answering the millions of questions Wendla had for her. Did she just not want her knowing? How did she expect her to know what to do as an adult? As- one day- a married woman?
The girl standing in front of the mirror, only in her undergarments, pressed her fingers down and across her hip bones, crossing over her plump stomach in a hold, as if she felt sick. Mostly because she did, in a way. She couldn’t understand her emotions, which almost seemed to be through a veil of nothing. In a way, she felt angry, she felt sad, she felt lost. However, she found herself feeling numb- feeling as though she felt nothing. As if she was fumbling, grasping towards the emotions she felt in the depths of her chest, but it was just out of reach. It left her wondering the last time she truly felt anything. Why, in moments such as this where she felt nothing but pain, was it put through a veil of nothingness, leaving her in the valley between emotionless and in pain?
In short, she felt like like she normally did. Lonely, sad, but most of all, numb. Even in all the good she did it all felt meaningless for her. She didn’t feel good by doing good, it was just another thing to distract from the growing pit in her stomach. The pit that swallowed her whole when she was alone in moments like this. The pit that she felt like she was mutely grasping, pleading to get out of in any way that she could. If only someone could hold her, touch her, save her. But muted pleas fall on deaf ears, nobody was listening, and nobody would ever save her. So instead she placed blame on the one person who could have saved her from this. This not knowing, this ignorance, this feeling that she was nothing but a child. Her mom could have saved her from this by simply telling her. Her mom had this knowledge that was haunting her so. She could never understand why this information was withheld from her.
Wendla almost felt like a fairy princess as she put on her favorite childhood dress. She remembered the days of pirates and fairies with her friends. Was that the last time she felt? The last time she didn't question all that was around her? The last time she was content? Maybe if she pretended she could act like she still felt like that. Maybe she could convince herself that she was significant. She pressed her hands down the sides of the dress, watching the fabric shift under her fingertips. She remembered her friends, Melchior, Moritz, Ilse. She couldn't recall the last time she got to be with any of them, particularly not Moritz and Melchior. She remembered slowly being pulled away from them. She remembered finding out she couldn't go to school with them. Why? Because they were boys? What was the difference? She couldn't understand it. Another thing she blamed her mom for. She missed her old childhood friends. Who decided such rules? Why would it matter if boys and girls interacted alike? Nothing bad could come of it! Unless, of course, there was and it was a part of what her mom didn't tell her.
Why hadn't her mom explained? She thought she could trust her with anything, but she couldn't even trust her to explain what she didn't have knowledge of. Wendla yearned for knowledge that was ripped away from her. It was so close, yet so far away. She could not understand. Her mom never explained. She would never know. It would ruin her. Wendla thought innocent thoughts of unknowing as she observed herself, tracing across her prominent collarbones.
Mama who bore me
Mama who gave me
No way to handle things
Who made me so sad
Mama the weeping
Mama the angels
No sleep in heaven
Or Bethlehem