What does it mean to be a goddess? Or to become one?

She smiles at me when I bring her tea. Thanks me and drinks it in slow, savouring sips, in time with the rain falling outside, the way anyone else would. If I could introduce her to someone who had no idea, I wonder whether they would look at her and see just a woman.

I wonder whether she would be happier that way. Her smiles never last, while her vigils into the rainy nights always do. They say she’ll be glorious when the time comes. Perfection made manifest, radiant sunlight and prosperity eternal. But when I tell her the bath is ready or urge her to bed, I find it so hard to see anything but a woman in her. One too holy for anyone else to touch, too sublime to be truly loved, who stares out the window alone until I turn back the covers for her and then whispers the same sad secrets as anyone else to her dreams.