.
The Whisperers
I can hear them whispering when I pass by the
doorway. Soft silks rubbing conspiratorially against iridescent taffeta. Self
absorbed. Narcissistic. “I’m sure the invitation will come.” “I am her
favourite.” “I have seen the old year out and the new year in.” “I have seen
the red carpet.” “I will be the chosen one.”
I trudge further down the darkened
hall to a high, dark closet where a sense of gravitas prevails; the real
thoroughbreds live here. The exquisite custom made concert gowns, each one a
work of art and an achievement on the part of the bevy of seamstresses who have
contributed to their pedigree. They know their own worth. They have traveled
the world, they have felt the warmth of the stage lights and withstood the intrusive
scrutiny of the television cameras. They have never been found wanting. Each
one is tailored to an exact specification for an express mood, need, or
occasion. They fit one person and one person alone. They are far too majestic
to wonder when they will be called upon. They simply are. And when their moment
comes, whether now or fifty years hence, they will maintain their pride and
their dignity and they will be ready.
Quite removed from them are the
legion of suits and day dresses, perfectly tailored, powerful, demanding of
respect and attention. If truth be told they are slightly bewildered. Why have
they not been called into action? Theirs is a resumé and a legacy of board room
negotiations, production meeting one up man ships. They have hired, fired,
redirected, mentored, counseled, and consoled. They have raised funds, chaired
balls, hosted events, and made speeches. They too know their worth but are
puzzled that they sit idle when there seems so much else that they could be
doing.
What happened to the life these
garments supported, embodied, and shared?
The answer lies with one perfectly
cut pale grey light weight suit, its lapel graced by a meticulous grey
self-camellia. It waits with its matching grey, crystal embellished garden
party hat and pearl grey suede peep toe shoes. The answer is layered and
intricately entwined with the answer to the decimating question: what will I
wear to bury the love of my life?
What am I to wear to bid public
farewell to my heart and soul? It must be chic. It must be one of the elegant
choices with which he gifted me. I must be true to myself. I must make him
proud. I must silently tell the world that I am who I am. I am simply not who I
was. And grey is the correct choice because since one dark and terrible morning
in May, I exist between two worlds in the grey transitional space where the
aluminum energy resides; where there is no grounding and no commitment to life,
only an openness to move beyond the here and now, the colourful bustle of life
as we have known it so far.
Grey is the place and the colour
and the frame of mind. And though useful actions and necessary tasks are
fulfilled every day, the reality is the in between state where one waits for
life to begin again, reunited, in another place and no time.
And thus are the trappings, the
trinkets, the baubles, bangles, and beads of another life, my life, trapped in
amber, waiting to reignite, if only we could hear the door open and the one I
have lived for call out “Babe, I’m home!” And I will wear his favourite dress.
Holly Larocque
Holly Larocque is a Canadian entertainer best known for her starring roles in "Under the Umbrella Tree" on the Disney Channel, and in the North American touring concert "The Big Band Broadcast starring Holly Larocque and the Mark Ferguson Orchestra"
Tags:
Short Fiction