ALL WOMAN

He's home again from another day
She smiles at him as he walks through the door.
She wonders if it will be Okay
It`s hard for her when he doesn't respond

He says, " babe you look a mess You look dowdy in that dress
It's just not like it used to be ."Then she says. . .
I may not be a lady But I'm All Woman
From Monday to Sunday I work harder than you know
I'm no classy lady But I'm AllWoman
And the woman needs a little love to make her strong
You're not the only one

She stands there and lets the tears flow
Tears that she's been holding back so long
She wonders where did all the loving go
The love they used to share when they were strong
She says yes I look a mess But I don`t love you any less
I thought you always thought enough of me To always be impressed
I may not be a lady But I'm All Woman
From Monday to Sunday I work my fingers to the bone
I'm no classy lady But I'm All Woman
This woman needs a little love lo make her strong
You're not the only one

He holds her and hangs his head in shame
He doesn't see her like he used to do
He's too wrapped up In working for his pay
He hasn't seen the pain he's put her through
Attention that he paid Just vanished in the haze
He remembers how it used to be
When he used to say
"You'll always be a lady 'Cos you're All Woman
From Monday to Sunday I love you much more than you know.
You're a classy lady'Cos you're All Woman
This woman needs a loving men to keep her warm
You're the only one
You're a classy lady 'Cos you're All Woman
So sweet the love that used to be
We can be sweet again. . .
(song by Liza Stansfield)

At four in the morning, I dragged myself to the bathroom after breasfeeding my 3-week baby. I passed the kitchen and saw the dirty plates in the sink and 6 dirty milk bottles of my 23-month son to sterilize. I could not miss the sight of laundry at the corner. Then I remembered the list of groceries to buy. Sigh!

I felt embarrassed looking at my reflection on the mirror over the washtafel. Name it! Messy hair, tired eyes, oily face, unbuttoned and wet by the breastmillk duster. Sigh!
Suddenly the image of one of my best friends struck me. Let's name her, S. Whenever I felt exhausted for taking care of only two children and complained, I always tried to cheer my self up by telling to myself " I have wonderful children and loving and supportive husband , S could bear with much worse conditions, so put your chin up!".

The night before I read a blogger of a friend, Fia, and she wrote that S finally moved to Yogya. It's not that I got too sentimental being away from friends. It's just that I did not have a chance to say goodbye before I left for Japan and now that I lose contact with her and may not be able to trace her. The saddest thing is that on the day of my departure to Japan she sms me " Ken, I'm sorry for all the troubles". And I could not forgive myself for not replying her sms only because I did not have enough account in my simpati card and I was darn too busy to make calls to my husband's friend asking about the overweight luggage procedure.

Where was I when I was needed?

S means more than a friend to me. She taught me many things --how to live mylife, to be a wife, mother and true friend. We had disagreement and different values, lead different lives. I may not always understand her, and to her I have always been too ignorant, self-reliant and hardheaded, but she never gave up provoking her point of views.

Listening to her life story is just like watching a circus to me. The broken-home girl who met a charismatic man of her dream had to make a very risky decision to be able to marry the man. The struggling woman has to make the ends meet for three children and pay the installment for the house for the husband has his his own idea of making money. Yet, the depression she was going through-- two suicidal attempts-- to be able to cope with depressed husband and no money. She even had to be absent from work because she did not have money for the transportation fees. The worst is the pain she has to bear physically and mentally before deciding to leave Jakarta for Yogyakarta.

And the song of Liza Stansfield pictures her.

Just now I said to my husband, I can't help feeling sorrow to remember her. I had not done much to help her. I wish I knew how to.

I just can wipe my tears silently while typing these lines, hoping that she would find a better life and hope.