Customary suits of solemn black

There’s something singular about ironing for sad events. I ironed the funeral dress tonight, but not for a (literal) funeral. It’s actually too big on me now, it’s shuffling me off, perhaps, but I shall wear it tomorrow anyway.

I’ve ironed it for many somber events, and fewer dressy events. I’ve had the dress for years. It’s amazing how versatile a woman’s “little black dress” can be, as long as it’s not too tight or too short, isn’t it? I’ve somehow agonized over what to wear. Shoes I can walk several downtown blocks in but still look decent enough. A necklace that, on a day a very, very long time ago, meant something, and now is full of neither sound nor fury – but signifies nothing.

I’ve not a lot of words for the blog tonight.

I desperately wish my best friend were here, but she lives thousands of miles away. I wish my Mom was my old Mom and would come over and keep me company and make me some soup or Baba’s macaroni, and sit me down and show me an old movie, both of us under a single blanket. I wish my Dad were here to tell me how wonderful he thinks I am, to distract me with a conversation about jazz trumpeters.I wish Bones were here, to cuddle with.

I wish a lot of things.


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