The house breathes with me tonight, heavy and slow, the January chill seeping through the old sash windows like a sigh that never quite ends.
I stand before the tall cheval mirror in our bedroom, the one we once laughed about because it tilted just enough to make us look taller, more dramatic. Now it simply reflects truth. The long black satin gown slides against my skin with every small shift—cool at first touch, then warming to body heat until it feels like a second, mourning skin. The subtle sheen catches the single beeswax candle on the dresser: tiny liquid stars that ripple down my chest whenever I breathe. Each rustle is a whisper, silk on silk, like her voice used to be when she leaned close and murmured secrets only we knew. The oversized black satin headscarf is wrapped with ritual care, its weight pressing gently against my temples. Over it drapes the sheer black chiffon voile veil, layers so gossamer thin that the candle flame behind me turns them into trembling smoke. When I exhale, the finest filaments lift and settle again against my cheeks, a cool, feathery kiss that makes me close my eyes. Through the veil the world softens: edges blur, the room becomes a daguerreotype of itself, sepia grief in motion. I painted my lips tonight deepest matte black, almost velvet, the colour of spent roses and midnight ink. When I press them together, I taste the faint waxy bitterness of the pigment, a small sharp reminder that I am still here, tasting, feeling. My eyes are rimmed in kohl so dense it drinks the light; blinking feels luxurious, deliberate, the lashes heavy with mascara that leaves faint shadows on my cheeks when tears threaten, and they do, often, silently.
Here looking at this reflection of me, swathed and solemn, the veil parting just enough to show the dramatic darkness of my mouth. My gloved hands black satin too, the gloves so fine you can feel every ridge of my fingerprints beneath, they rest in my lap as I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress gives a soft creak, familiar as a heartbeat. I trace the raised damask pattern on the gown’s skirt, fingertips gliding over glossy ridges and valleys, each touch releasing the faintest scent of cedar from the wardrobe where her dresses still hang beside mine. Lavender has faded from the sachets, now it’s only the clean, mineral smell of rain-soaked England outside and the warm animal trace of wax burning low. The rain taps irregular Morse code against the glass. I rise, the gown pooling and then lifting like spilled ink in reverse, and cross to the window. Lifting the veil just high enough, I press my forehead to the cold pane. A shiver races down my spine; the contrast of icy glass against feverish skin is exquisite, almost painful. My breath clouds the window, and when I pull back, a perfect print of black lipstick remains—a dark rose left behind. She would have smiled at that, called it romantic. “Even your grief is theatrical, darling,” she’d say, voice warm with amusement. I let the veil fall again, a soft sigh of chiffon settling over my face. The candle flickers, throwing long shadows that dance across the walls like mourners at a ball no one invited them to. Two months, and every sense is sharpened on the whetstone of absence, the weight of fabric, the cool kiss of veil, the bitter taste of lipstick, the low crackle of wick, the endless soft percussion of rain. I am still here. Dressed in every layer of love and loss,
mourning with all the elegance she once said I deserved, even on the nights when elegance feels like the only thing keeping me from dissolving entirely into the dark.
And in this moment, wrapped in shining black, veiled and fragrant with memory, I feel almost beautiful again.
I stand before the tall cheval mirror in our bedroom, the one we once laughed about because it tilted just enough to make us look taller, more dramatic. Now it simply reflects truth. The long black satin gown slides against my skin with every small shift—cool at first touch, then warming to body heat until it feels like a second, mourning skin. The subtle sheen catches the single beeswax candle on the dresser: tiny liquid stars that ripple down my chest whenever I breathe. Each rustle is a whisper, silk on silk, like her voice used to be when she leaned close and murmured secrets only we knew. The oversized black satin headscarf is wrapped with ritual care, its weight pressing gently against my temples. Over it drapes the sheer black chiffon voile veil, layers so gossamer thin that the candle flame behind me turns them into trembling smoke. When I exhale, the finest filaments lift and settle again against my cheeks, a cool, feathery kiss that makes me close my eyes. Through the veil the world softens: edges blur, the room becomes a daguerreotype of itself, sepia grief in motion. I painted my lips tonight deepest matte black, almost velvet, the colour of spent roses and midnight ink. When I press them together, I taste the faint waxy bitterness of the pigment, a small sharp reminder that I am still here, tasting, feeling. My eyes are rimmed in kohl so dense it drinks the light; blinking feels luxurious, deliberate, the lashes heavy with mascara that leaves faint shadows on my cheeks when tears threaten, and they do, often, silently.
Here looking at this reflection of me, swathed and solemn, the veil parting just enough to show the dramatic darkness of my mouth. My gloved hands black satin too, the gloves so fine you can feel every ridge of my fingerprints beneath, they rest in my lap as I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress gives a soft creak, familiar as a heartbeat. I trace the raised damask pattern on the gown’s skirt, fingertips gliding over glossy ridges and valleys, each touch releasing the faintest scent of cedar from the wardrobe where her dresses still hang beside mine. Lavender has faded from the sachets, now it’s only the clean, mineral smell of rain-soaked England outside and the warm animal trace of wax burning low. The rain taps irregular Morse code against the glass. I rise, the gown pooling and then lifting like spilled ink in reverse, and cross to the window. Lifting the veil just high enough, I press my forehead to the cold pane. A shiver races down my spine; the contrast of icy glass against feverish skin is exquisite, almost painful. My breath clouds the window, and when I pull back, a perfect print of black lipstick remains—a dark rose left behind. She would have smiled at that, called it romantic. “Even your grief is theatrical, darling,” she’d say, voice warm with amusement. I let the veil fall again, a soft sigh of chiffon settling over my face. The candle flickers, throwing long shadows that dance across the walls like mourners at a ball no one invited them to. Two months, and every sense is sharpened on the whetstone of absence, the weight of fabric, the cool kiss of veil, the bitter taste of lipstick, the low crackle of wick, the endless soft percussion of rain. I am still here. Dressed in every layer of love and loss,
mourning with all the elegance she once said I deserved, even on the nights when elegance feels like the only thing keeping me from dissolving entirely into the dark.
And in this moment, wrapped in shining black, veiled and fragrant with memory, I feel almost beautiful again.
The house breathes with me tonight, heavy and slow, the January chill seeping through the old sash windows like a sigh that never quite ends.
I stand before the tall cheval mirror in our bedroom, the one we once laughed about because it tilted just enough to make us look taller, more dramatic. Now it simply reflects truth. The long black satin gown slides against my skin with every small shift—cool at first touch, then warming to body heat until it feels like a second, mourning skin. The subtle sheen catches the single beeswax candle on the dresser: tiny liquid stars that ripple down my chest whenever I breathe. Each rustle is a whisper, silk on silk, like her voice used to be when she leaned close and murmured secrets only we knew. The oversized black satin headscarf is wrapped with ritual care, its weight pressing gently against my temples. Over it drapes the sheer black chiffon voile veil, layers so gossamer thin that the candle flame behind me turns them into trembling smoke. When I exhale, the finest filaments lift and settle again against my cheeks, a cool, feathery kiss that makes me close my eyes. Through the veil the world softens: edges blur, the room becomes a daguerreotype of itself, sepia grief in motion. I painted my lips tonight deepest matte black, almost velvet, the colour of spent roses and midnight ink. When I press them together, I taste the faint waxy bitterness of the pigment, a small sharp reminder that I am still here, tasting, feeling. My eyes are rimmed in kohl so dense it drinks the light; blinking feels luxurious, deliberate, the lashes heavy with mascara that leaves faint shadows on my cheeks when tears threaten, and they do, often, silently.
Here looking at this reflection of me, swathed and solemn, the veil parting just enough to show the dramatic darkness of my mouth. My gloved hands black satin too, the gloves so fine you can feel every ridge of my fingerprints beneath, they rest in my lap as I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress gives a soft creak, familiar as a heartbeat. I trace the raised damask pattern on the gown’s skirt, fingertips gliding over glossy ridges and valleys, each touch releasing the faintest scent of cedar from the wardrobe where her dresses still hang beside mine. Lavender has faded from the sachets, now it’s only the clean, mineral smell of rain-soaked England outside and the warm animal trace of wax burning low. The rain taps irregular Morse code against the glass. I rise, the gown pooling and then lifting like spilled ink in reverse, and cross to the window. Lifting the veil just high enough, I press my forehead to the cold pane. A shiver races down my spine; the contrast of icy glass against feverish skin is exquisite, almost painful. My breath clouds the window, and when I pull back, a perfect print of black lipstick remains—a dark rose left behind. She would have smiled at that, called it romantic. “Even your grief is theatrical, darling,” she’d say, voice warm with amusement. I let the veil fall again, a soft sigh of chiffon settling over my face. The candle flickers, throwing long shadows that dance across the walls like mourners at a ball no one invited them to. Two months, and every sense is sharpened on the whetstone of absence, the weight of fabric, the cool kiss of veil, the bitter taste of lipstick, the low crackle of wick, the endless soft percussion of rain. I am still here. Dressed in every layer of love and loss,
mourning with all the elegance she once said I deserved, even on the nights when elegance feels like the only thing keeping me from dissolving entirely into the dark.
And in this moment, wrapped in shining black, veiled and fragrant with memory, I feel almost beautiful again.
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