She is all of them.

She is thirty-eight and unmarried by design—

no bitterness, just soft linen and the right to her own quiet mornings.

She is sixty-two and divorced with elegance—

still sending birthday cards, no return address.

She is twenty-six and unsure, buying vintage earrings before rent.

She is seventy-four and remembers more than she says—

the champagne was cold, the summer endless,

and someone once whispered her name like a secret.

She is newly in love—bright, foolish, golden.

She is bored in love—counting forks at dinner.

She is done with love—except on Thursdays.

She is raising children. She is raising herself.

She is building something no one can quite see,

but everyone feels when she walks into the room.

She lives in Brooklyn—plants on the fire escape.

She lives in Montecito—barefoot with silver in her hair.

She lives in a flat with good light in the 7th—

too many books, and just enough perfume.

She is Black, and glowing—skin like a summer fig.

She is Indian, and doesn’t wear her mother’s bangles,

but keeps them wrapped in silk, like a promise.

She is French-Algerian, with a scar behind her knee

and a suitcase she never quite unpacks.

She is East Asian, and slips her grandmother’s ring on

before signing anything important.

She is white and sun-spotted, with gold on her collarbone

and no interest in apologies.

She is remarried.

She is widowed.

She is single by spirit.

She is the second wife—or the first to leave.

She shops slowly, with memory.

She drinks her coffee cold.

She forgives—but only once.

She keeps the ring.

Even when she doesn’t keep the man.

She doesn’t ask for attention.

She edits the scene until it belongs to her.

She doesn’t tell you her whole story.

She lets her wrist do that.

Her neck.

Her hand.

She is the Odeon woman.

Unless… she’s someone else entirely.