The grey suit
March 2, 2012 at 21:29 There are islands of sheer pink polish on her nails, the ragged edges only visible when the light hits her hands a certain way.
It's been two weeks.
There's a grey suit hanging in the closet with a satin blouse. Worn once. Like a costume--a fantasy fulfilled. Queen for a Day.
Her imagination had produced it like a film: the daily dress up ritual, the car swinging into the parking lot, her satchel swaying against her hip, her voice competent and professional on the phone, the desktop with everything in its place. She could see the faces of the people she'd get to know, the door swinging behind her at the end of the day, the sun low and golden, the heat rising off the sidewalk in the summer.
She dreamed of setting aside her practical shoes for something with a heel. Of checking her phone for Important Messages. Of reapplying her lipstick in the ladies room.
But...
The phone never rang. The mailbox remained empty. Her name disappeared into the ether like a deleted message.
Gone.
Every time she opens her closet, she sees the grey suit.
She thinks, "I could wear that to a funeral."
Maybe she already has.
She's at that age and stage where dreams are fading, curling at the edges, shrinking.
Friends' Facebook updates include messages about autoimmune disorders, suspicious masses, irregular heartbeats, blockages, medications, and hospitalizations.
When did this become normal?
She shudders, closes her eyes. She knows what comes next.
The news links make less sense than ever. Politicians bickering, posturing, and name calling. Children shot at school. Civilians slaughtered by their own governments. Tornadoes flattening whole towns.
That grey suit, the expensive emblem of hard work, efficiency, and success, would be perfect for a funeral.
Yes, yes it would.
Copyright 2012 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. Do not cut, copy, paste, or steal.
Reader Comments (7)
But it's true.
Sigh. All I've got....