“Hel-loo, Donna Wallace,” words spoken in a slow baritone, so warm I don’t want to delete the voice mail. Ever.
“You look fantastic… as always,” rolls off the tongue of another of my charming male friends. [Insert a raised shoulder, a downward tilt of the chin, a smile and a blush.] Is he a player, or might he actually mean it? I am slow to believe, really slow. But, I have such good friends—trustworthy and kind. Thoughtful and safe. I am blessed.
In a world of harsh, angry sounds, I thirst for these kind words, raindrops in dust, that round out the steady, daily tenderness of my husband. In a world of mergers, acquisitions, negotiations, and equality, I long to be found; a jewel, feminine. Surprised and delighted by forgotten chivalry, warm oil is poured over my achy soul, and I am reminded of an ancient myth long forgotten. A woman dancing in firelight. Mist rising above the sea. Gallantry.