Les Dames Blanches

[bunnie]

"From my rotting body flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity."

                                    – Edvard Munch.

[bunnie]

Under the sunny skies of the Borcan Spring rest a mother and her young daughter, dressed in crisp whites and settled upon a blanket of woven yarn. Surrounded by the remnants of their morning tea, and clipped florals, the pair’s rosy cheeks bunch with the mirth only held in memories of one’s childhood. An unbridled joy that they share in this moment.

The youth’s eyes are bright, as if stars shining in the night sky, filled with the wonder one carries during their youngest years. She clasps a bundle of blossoms to her chest, one offered out to her mother in kind with a little gloved hand. A sweet gesture, to which the woman in turn beams at.

They sat against a background of softened greens, a peppering of bright florals and lush grasses that rose high around the little scene of familial company.

Her hands are to be kept covered. Enveloped with dark silks of georgette, of satin, sewn into perfect gloves and opulent muffs. It is as if the very view of her skin is immoral, something to be sequestered away as I was. To preserve the illusion of godliness, of a high ground of morality. Every pinch and push of gloved fingers intended to convey our wealth, our position, how dainty she was. How perfect. Because of course; we are nothing less than perfect, Nàdia. Speak up, chin up, suitors do not appreciate a woman who babbles incessantly.

Suitors do not find it handsome in a woman to stammer so.

How is it that one can change so much in the span of a youth, I ask? Is it the stress of progeny that made you retreat so, mammi? It feels as if it has been near a century since we bonded as we used to in the gardens. Since we spoke properly, saw one another for more than a moment. Since I had a moment of the free time I crave.

When we were happy, they were free. Her hands were delicate, soft, with lengthy fingers accustomed to plucking the harp. To tuning the viola. Calloused fingertips and shortened nails. The perfect hands to hold. And hold them I would, as tight as I was able in my childish glee, as we trotted through the gardens. To the clearing we found with Basile. I find myself missing when we could do so, often. It is the season for our camellias, in their flurry of pinks and whites. I look at my hands, I picture yours, and I fret;

Do you love me less because of the ailment? I do not mean to remind you of her.

[bunnie]

Upon the flowering bough of a wisteria settles a duo of tiny passerines. Dark chestnut streaks flow over each bird’s plumage, feathers depicted with a gradient of brown to soft buff - from above to below. Beady little eyes of inky black peer, inquisitive and yet greedy as the duo of fowl fuss with the florals.

Each branch of bare wood freely drips with budding petals of lavenders and blues, relaxed downward in delicate little bundles, as if the flowers themselves had leased a held breath. Doused with the morning’s dew the floral bunches exude a softened pollen. Birds preen and peck at the petals readily - plucking the soft leaflets from their roosts as they take the flora’s boons for their own, ever wanting.

His hands were those of an artist, long fingered and roughened from his work. When they gripped my own so harshly my heart would flutter in a manner I could only assume was fondness. I had never been accustomed to holding affections, aware that the marriage intended for myself was to be one of political gain. Perhaps I simply pined after the romances shown to me in literatures, in plays, or the approval he leased upon me in waves. Overwhelming, all encompassing, he was as overpowering as the ocean itself and I was but a vessel enclosed in his storm.

And my feelings for him would continue to be that; all encompassing, overpowering. Controlling. A flighty feeling that drowned my own psyche, near constant.

When those hands pressed against the back of my own, when they guided each press of the keys, the touch was never chaste. Even as my hands grew overworked, tinted a sick purple his own contrasted with, would his approval keep me bound. When we would chatter after our lessons, and he would reassure me that I was to be perfection, I felt a sense of correctness. If it felt correct, it must have been. I remember his expression as our lessons concluded, as he was to be sent away in finality. I was finally the perfection he wanted, even if I did not feel it. Anything less is unacceptable after all.

His teeth had always shown when he smiled, when I had rested upon him tentatively, and on this day did they show in turn. Delighted, indifferent, and bared to the world. He had always been a man that lacked any remorse, I knew he would not regret his actions. Perhaps I regretted enough for the both of us, perhaps if I repented enough would the yearning cease. As he left I felt as overwhelmed as I had in his company and yet not so, the waters had ceased their crushing and yet I was left craving their return.

My thoughts drift to him still, whether in unconsciousness or carved upon canvas.