The world weary hands of the old woman pushed her out of
bed. They reached for the worn closet doors, with its brass door knobs, and
pulled them open. Looking at the clothing revealed by the light, she signed at
the unending colors of black upon black upon black, with not a single shade of
color to break up the monotony. After donning one of the many black gowns, she
turned and sat at her sewing table. There draped over the table next to her
thread and needles, was the dress that she had been working on embroidering.
Though on the outside, she must maintain the same stoic appearance that every
nun must maintain, however, underneath, on her petticoats she embroidered
beautiful flowers with French silk thread. The actual flowers held no romance,
no sense of what was ideal, but rather because of a deep longing for what could
have been. Here and now, years after joining the German convent, was the first
time she had ever felt real regret over here choice. Nein, she thought, Nein.
Years before, when she had yet to think of joining the
convent, there had been a young man who had wooed her. “Liebchen” she said to
herself as she smiled. Oh how her life would have been different had he lived.
After his death, she turned to the convent for help and healing. Had she
married him, perhaps she would have turned into one of those women standing by
the church wall, wearing her orange dress, waiting to take her fussy children to
the back of the church during Sunday mass. Now in the twilight for her life,
she longed for the man and the children she was never allowed to have. Sighing
she turned back to the little flowers and dreamed for the romance was never
allowed to blossom, just as these flowers would never be allowed the same.
Explanation
Ach, Mutter,
This old, black dress,
I have been embroidering
French flowers on it.
Not by way of romance,
Here is nothing of the ideal,
Nein,
Nein.
It would have een different,
Liebchen,
If I had imagined myself,
In an orange gown,
Drifting through space,
Like a figure on the church-wall
No comments:
Post a Comment