It’s not my intention to impose, but I can’t seem to write about anything else right now
(well, there's the political stuff). I don’t understand grief. It’s been four months since the death of my Luvly Laura, and I have begun to think the pain is duller and the grief less powerful. HAH! I sit here alone, and it comes unbidden, unexpected and unwanted. The first line of the poem below rolled through my head for at least two hours, and every time it came through again I would start to weep. I finally decided that the only thing I could do was treat it like an earworm and let the damned poem write itself out. Turned out, it needed some help, but here it is.
Little Black Dress
I went out one day, to buy my love a dress.
A dress I knew she would wear but once
And only at the last place she’d ever be seen
But she had nothing new, and I wanted her
To look her best for what would be our last reunion.
A little black dress, I thought, would be best, just as
Coco Chanel said, “Every woman should have
A little black dress.” But my love had no
Such dress, nor had she ever worn one that I recalled
But for this time, this one last time, she would.
In the store I found a little clerk just the size
To help me choose and model my love’s dress.
In no time at all she had found the perfect dress
And held it up so I could see. But my eyes
Betrayed me, leaking tears of just-earned grief
And so I had to tell her that the dress was only
For a single use - my love’s laying out, so she
Could feel proud of how she looked again,
After so long being ill and looking sick and wan.
Her looks were after all her greatest pride and fear.
Later that week we gathered ‘round to be with her
And bid her our good-byes. The little black dress, a
Slender necklace made of gold, were just enough.
She’d have been pleased with how she looked
That last time the family was ever together with her.