The Black Dress

Stories to Tell

Shall I start with this black crepe dress I found hanging rumpled and discouraged from a bent hanger in the basement rummage of Barnstable’s Saint Mary’s Church?

Shall I start by wondering who chose it brand-new from a rack of store dresses long ago? In my imagination, she had long arms and was probably tall and had straight hair and wore reading glasses. She no doubt had a silver tea set and believed in long walks, fresh air, and good manners. She may have summered along the New England coast.

I am certain that beneath the patrician veneer, there was a mysterious, even otherworldly aspect  to the prior owner of this dress, though carefully guarded and only allowed out in dark, playful moments.

Shall I start by believing that she knew about the worlds beneath the senses, beneath her carefully ordered life? The worlds of clouds and deja vu, shadow, and memories of memories? There were spirits in her driveway; her cats had eyes like stars; the wind roused her heart; the broom twitched in the corner; the moon begged for her glance. Now and then, she woke up at first light and wondered if she had made it all up: the night, the wind, the moon, the pounding of her heart, the voices filled with songs of all she had been before the tea set, the beautifully set table. Before the church dinners, the library sales, the sensible shoes.

I put on the dress. It is October. The leaves are dry and raspy from September’s hurricane, and the air is full of golden smoke. The little neighborhood cat at the back door meows when she sees me, and I swear the broom by the fireplace quivered once or twice. I shall have a cup of tea by the fire. I shall listen for the clink of silver and the wind in the brittle leaves and the stories I know this dress can tell.