Dumpling Woman

"Pumpkins and squash take their time--they are the slow sister. The corn is the firstborn and grows straight and stiff; it is a stem with a lofty goal. Making a strong stem is its highest priority at first. It needs to be there for its younger sister, the bean. Beans put out a pair of heart-shaped leaves on just a stub of a stem, then another pair, and another, all low to the ground..." - a snip of the story of The Three Sisters gardening style

There was no doubt age and her love affair with good food made her who she had become. Beautiful, soft, and round the woman certainly filled her clothing well. Waves of white streaked through her wild thick hair. "It's a good thing that wicked sister-self has taken to that nectar," the birds chittered as they flew between the tips of the huckleberries, leaving Dumpling Woman's dreams at the first sign of dawn. Hummingbird was the last to leave her, suspecting there was still too much residual wanderings. They were especially good friends, this round little woman and the fast-moving iridescent feathered one. Now that there was no cat to threaten the winged ones, Hummingbird felt the bond grow between them; she'd always liked this human.

All around her the chattel-of-connect reminded her that life persisted. "In spite of all the obstruction, those weeds find a way to get to the sun." Sleep was still clotting her eyes. She rubbed, and then cursed, "Damn!" The pain in her wrists had not gone somewhere other than with her. Propped against the wall she made small circles to ease the discomfort. Bigger circles to encourage taking the leap off the bed. Eased enough Dumpling Woman ran her hands through her still thick, but now, totally unruly hair. The motion seemed to be exactly what she needed to be reminded of her femaleness.

Onto her feet she leaned into the small mirror dangling from the short length of yellow cotton seam binding. "Well," she was muttering. This was the first voice of the morning. "Here we are, not quite the bright and perky face of the ingenue." Cackling now the other voices chimed, "But then ... we aren't!" "There there ... those cheeks are still as smooth as Butternut." Within sixty ticks on the clock the three sisters had had their turn. It was the beginning of yet another slip on that banana peel of a life in this companion garden.

The birds had gone about their business of finding food save for Hummingbird who was grateful for the very well positioned neck of glass tubing protruding from a sweet mixture of berry juice. Hanging in the ceiling from the porch the feeder could only host her needle fine proboscis. Hovering as she drank, Hummingbird counted. "There are four. Four voices. However does she manage it?" She mused. How indeed does a human being manage the many voices that co-exist within one self?