I saw a woman on the bus today and I thought to myself, ‘I want to make a story about you.’

I studied her features, like one is supposed to when you people watch, trying to note the characteristics about her that told a story. Her skin was dark and I described it to myself as dark chocolate, warm and smooth. Her hair was up in a lavender shawl, tied and wrapped so there was an impression of braids just beneath it’s surface. Her hands were folded over her purse and she stared at nothing as the bus bounced and jostled her roundness. She was like an earth goddess displaced on that bus. A being full of magic but had become disconnected from the earth she was meant to be apart of.

No one from the mainstream would choose her to be their goddess…

…their ideal of womanhood and magic. She wasn’t sexy or flashy. That’s why I loved her. She broke those thin expectations, those low-bar quotas that were already chock full and boring. She reminded me that womanhood is more than sexuality. Womanhood is our humanity. Goddesshood, it’s epitome.

It made me feel special…

…for only I had found her and saw her for what she really was. The simple goddess on the bus, not waiting to be found and worshipped. Existence, her mere presence, was her duty to perform to linchpin our mortal existence place and she did not need us mortals to accolade her for herself to be important. But I knew her secret, even if she didn’t know that I knew. She never looked at me. I was too beneath her notice as all mortals are to the divine and when I got off the bus, she remained still, sitting patiently, tranquilly until the bus moved on again.