When the sun rises and filters through my shutters, the day begins again with new hope. I have errands to run, dinner parties to arrange, and lunches with friends at cafés mimicking their French counterparts. I arrive home and the servants and housekeeper have begun to set everything as it should be. I walk from room to room as a ghost floating to see if my help is needed anywhere, even though I know this ghost is not needed in these areas. Guests arrive. Wine is served. The latest in politics to the newest in fashion is discussed while we dine. I feel alive because my guests have always adored my dinner parties. Each guest has a personalized place setting that is never repeated twice. In the summer months, we dine al fresco. I make sure the gardner, Tom, has camellias, peonies, and roses as well as fragrant herbs throughout the gardens. I ask that it be as close to heaven as it can be. Tom never fails. Once my guests have had their fill and the wine and entertainment has drawn to a close, I am alone. Everyone has left, including the servants. I then go again as a ghost from room to room. They are back to perfection thanks to Marta and her daughters skilled and quick hands. After a long bath in my claw foot tub with rose water, I look at my reflection. Skin still young and taut. Hair ruby red. Before I retire to my own chambers I walk like again as a haunted ghost into the rooms I had hoped to fill with children. But I was not that fortunate. I don my nightgown and leave the shutters open allowing the moon to spill into my bedroom. It seems to purposefully shine on my antique four poster bed that I sleep in alone. No husband, lover, or paramour for me. Just as I drift off to sleep I reach across to the other side where another body should be. However, I am alone. He is gone and couldnt return it we both wished for it. Again, I go from room to room, but not as a ghost this time. Now I am a living woman. A woman of flesh, walking full of desires that I dont think will ever be fulfilled. Now the empty rooms are full of ghosts. Ghosts of children I never had. Ghosts of lovers and a husband who died. Ghosts of close friends I have lost over the years. I close the shutters and return to bed hoping of dreams that provide an escape from this longing that nothing seems to fill. ~ Jennifer Oliver-Steele Rough draft Untitled With Brenda Oliver-Steele
Posted on: Mon, 05 Jan 2015 02:08:43 +0000
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