The Greek Goddesses as I Know Them

snwitch:

Hera: Ivory cloth, draped over the shoulders of marble statues in estate gardens. Gardens of shaped hedges, a swift figure moving among them out of the corner of your eye. A ghostly watcher, uninvited and unseen, haunting the corners of marriage ceremonies, smiling as she turns away just as the final “I do” is spoken. A nurse, handing a woman’s newborn baby to her for the first time, quietly cherishing the tired, overwhelmed smile of the new mother.

Athena: The piercing cramps of a hand that has written for far too long. Leg muscles, strong and fierce, yet incredibly elegant, walking into battle without stumbling. A warrior, clad in blood-stained, golden armor, taking off her helmet as she walks away, revealing thick waves of brunette hair. The bags under the eyes of artists, writers, thinkers, their minds weary and exhausted from hours of work. The shadow of an owl as it flies over freshly-fallen snow.

Aphrodite: Love letters crumpled on the floor beneath a high-heeled foot, joining a floor of stomped dollar bills and colorless gardenia petals. Mulberry nail polish decorating sharpened nails, used for clawing through crowds, tearing out hearts. Broken perfume bottles, leaking their sweet scent into the fresh white carpet. Wine-colored lip prints, smudged onto her knuckles right before they make impact.

Artemis: Fine-tuned shoulder blades, refined and sharp, painted with rose-colored scrapes and tears. The imprints of feet in woodland trails, bending blades of grass and crumbling fallen leaves. Untamed, wild hair, following the trails of cool, dry wind. Paintball masks, smattered with colorful dots, hiding a face ready to strike an unknowing opponent. The quick glimpse of a deer’s tail as it darts off into the endless unknown.

Persephone: Ombred hair falling loosely across cracked skin, starting out the pastel color of pink pearls and slowly fading into an ebony abyss. Deep, chocolate cupcakes with pomegranate frosting, lined up one by one on a tainted silver plate. Lover’s hands intertwined, a dark secret held within them unbeknownst to their onlookers. The quite longing for a mother’s arms when the pale torments of untouched fields haunt your memories.

Hestia: The warm auburn glow of a room lit only by a fireplace after the power has gone out and the clouds have drawn away all of the certainty of sunlight. Fleeting sunrises that reach out to sleeping eyes, quietly whispering like a sweet mother for their child to wake. Kind hands as they pour their bit of change into the homeless woman’s jar or as they spoon the hot, sweet soup into the hungry mouth. A quiet coffee shop, opening its soft, warm arms to you as you enter to escape the cruel hands of winter.

Demeter: Hands, callused and torn from hours of fieldwork, complimented by a sunburned face. A mother, tears filling her eyes as she watches her child walk off into the college dorm for the first time, knowing that things will never be the same. Freshly squeezed orange juice and bread warm from the oven resting upon the table as a smiling family sits down to enjoy the feast, pushing aside the pain for a day for mother’s sake. Mother-daughter road trips that slowly fade into trips made by mother alone, wondering how things changed so fast.