The Housewife

These days, she straddles two worlds, and somehow for now, it works for her. She goes about her daily mundane tasks, but her mind is always light years away, living an opposite life where things are exciting and nothing is close to her reality. She's striving to throw herself over completely, to escape this life that she never planned or wanted. In that other world, I can fly, she thinks, as she glances down at the ball and chain which is quite possibly the last remaining thing that keeps her anchored to this world that is becoming less and less her reality, and more and more just a dream. Not a bad dream, no. But a dream where things move too slowly, where there are no colors, and where, even when she screams no sound comes forth.
She has dimly heard people say things like, "You are so organized. You're such a great mother. You always seem so calm." She chuckles softly at the thought, knowing that what those people see is only a fading shadow of what she might be in that other world. A deep sigh escapes her lips, but nobody notices the sound, or the slight change in her expression - a flicker of emotion that no person could name, even if they had noticed it.
She wanders through her house like a ghost, like a draft, and wonders often if she would be missed if she ever made it to that other place. She thinks not.
I should be something great, she thinks. I should be a warrior, fighting battles, drawing blood, shrieking a war cry that shakes the trees. I should have the wind in my hair, skin that by all rights should be weathered and leathered from the sun, but remains porcelain, because in my world, everything is as I wish it would be. She slowly dries another bowl as she drifts further into that idealized place, which can only be real to a filmmaker or a person who has lost their marbles. I am not insane, she tells herself. I just want something other than what is. Is that so wrong? I need this.
Anyone watching her would see a daydreaming woman doing what housewives are meant to do. But nobody can see where she's gone, now. Her body remains in the kitchen, hair askew, bathrobe coming loose, bare feet on slate tiles. Her hands sluggishly wash and dry the neverending dishes. But she has left her body, her kitchen, her house, her world. She flies now. And she smiles.