She wore a black dress. She wasn’t goth. Nor was she an artist making a fashion statement. She wore black to match her widowed soul. Yet, her husband wasn’t dead. His heart was still beating. His head was filled with thoughts. His body was fully capable of movement.
She wore black and she mourned.
The more she mourned the more he lived. The more he lived the less she wished she existed. He never hit her. Never touched her. Never even lifted a finger.
Yet, her entire existence was dedicated to her mourning. She was the widow of a living husband. His life spilled out through his mouth. A mouth that spilled out years of accumulated anger. A beating mouth like a beating heart. But he never lifted a finger. Never even touched her. Her heart was black to match her dress. Her heart was as black as it was blue. Black and blue like an internal graffiti scratching from within trying to escape, trying to get out.
Why didn’t she just leave him? Oh of course she tried once, twice and then a fateful third time. He hunted, tracked and searched: he always found her. He used his words to shoot her down and drag her back home. She knew she couldn’t live without him. Could she? He would never let her. Never allow it. So everyday she wore a black dress.
Yet, she never owned a little black dress. Those were reserved for women who wanted to impress. She didn’t want to impress, she wanted to remain unseen and unheard. To go unnoticed and ignored. She had the haunting memory of her own laughter, like a childhood friend that was but a foggy reminiscence. The feeling was very similar to that of her tears. The crying ended a long time ago.
She counted the days, her days, like a trapped convict.
This is a Magpie Tale – write on. I wish I could scream to every woman how much more she deserves. I wish I could wrap my imaginary wings around every wounded one and give her the warmth she deserves.