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The Whisperers






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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"





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