Little Black Dress

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.