The Golden Ones

Instead of a golden rule, I'll climb a golden mountain.
One that was built with a million threads, by hundreds of women centuries ago.
Women who have known much more than me of how the world works, and why flowers bloomed, and why mothers wept, and why the moon shines on us at night.
These women knew how to build mountains that no man could ever climb, no man could even SEE. Golden mountains that they birthed with their own hands. Like magic. Like life.
These women were thought to be witches, these women were thought to be goddesses, but they were no different than you and me.
They weaved their lives with golden threads and built mountains of empathy, or nurture, and care, of ambition and spite, of rage and love.
They built mountains for me to climb on, they built carpets for me to fly on, they built homes for me to live in. With their hands, and busts, and breaths, these women weaved life into these golden mountains, and years later, I, a mere mortal in the prestige of a woman's body, faces those mountains in awe, in jealousy, in doubt, in pride. 
Will I be a golden one? I ask these women.
​But they are no longer here to answer.

Maybe if I climb their golden mountains - I will answer for myself.