Friday, September 11, 2009

Memory of a Lady



You live in an apartment, one that is full of beautiful objects such as flowers in vases or nail scissors with golden handles, or a string of pearls draped round a porcelain hand designed specifically for that purpose.

That is one of the things I like about you, your jewelry and your many many things and the way they sit on your Regency dressing table which your grandmother once owned. They reflect in the oval mirror and they reflect on the deep polish of the table too in way that is sad and true like a poem should be.

When I am standing in your room and I watch you apply cream to your hands I think of how, when we are separated (as seems inevitable) and whatever anguish I feel over this has dissipated, I shall feel a tremendous sense of missing that sight- you applying cream.

I shall sometimes see myself standing there while you are so engaged. How must I have seemed to you: dense, ponderous? Did you consider me as a lost soul, beyond hope? I believe that yours was a more practical turn of mind. You were efficient, not necessarily at ease, but capable, seemingly without perversity.

My life, by contrast, was weighed down, opaque. When you asked me how I felt I could not say; I stammered. I was pent up, so full of emotions. I could never understand why you liked me.

I felt inferior to you but that wasn't why I didn’t ask you what you thought of me. I didnt ask you what you thought of me because you did not seem truly to have the need to discover anything about me at all and because I could not in a few words tell you my secrets.

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