My Mourning Gown

Based on a true story, this piece uses magical realism to convey a painful life experience.

I Wear a Mourning Gown

I was still wearing my nightgown that morning.  It was actually the gown I wore when nursing my last baby, an elegant nursing gown.  Back then, the gown was full of hope, full of plans, a soft, silky brown, cut beautifully to support my voluptuous, life giving, full breasts and curvy body.   It was a gown worth wearing in all seasons as the future unfolded.  Like the gown, I was beautiful and in all my womanly glory, a queen.

That morning, though, the gown was like me;  tired, tattered, faded, sagging, bagging, stretched out, worn out, but holding on, still able to be called worthy.   It was my comfort blanket, protecting me from all that was, all from which I wanted to be delivered.   We wore each other well, an understanding between us that allowed for flaws to be ignored, despite the flagrant dishonor.   I was confused about the doorbell ringing at seven in the morning.  One child was already on the bus, the other upstairs getting ready for school.  And me?  Still in my gown, I was putting a carton of milk back in the refrigerator.

Smiling, and partially hiding behind the door so as not to expose what was true, I warmly greeted the green frog standing on my threshold.  “How can I help you?  What a beautiful day it is!” Without warning, and quite unexpectedly,  a black leviathan crossed the doorway and swept past me as he said, “So sorry to disrupt your life”.  Completely astonished, I wondered what could possibly disrupt my life?  Suddenly eight chompers, eaters of life, appeared.    Their sole task?  Decimate, plunder, trick, embarrass, destroy, denigrate, and shame without abandon and with all authority.   Mercifully, the green frog allowed me the dignity of removing my gown and as I covered my shame,  I wondered why?

The searching, the searching.  What were they looking for?  As they looked with their greedy eyes and peered into my soul, I flew up into the ceiling and watched from above.  I heard the whirring of the machine and as it searched,  the screaming started in my head.  I saw the folders clicking, clicking, clicking by.   They couldn’t find it.   But I tasted the sourness of the new day, my new life to be.  It was like sour curdled milk out of a carton, no more creamy milk from my breast.    My hands felt what was left and there was no joy, no hope.  It smelled like nothing I had ever smelled before; anguish, darkness, death.  And the screaming got louder.   Days, weeks, months, a year went by.  Is this real?  The screaming in my head won’t stop. They finally found what they came for.  I came down from the ceiling like a wounded bird,  fluttering with broken wings, exhausted.

After they left, what was my life lay scattered on the floor in shards.  I picked up each piece and examined it with wretched sorrow.  Some I put in my pocket to save for later; some I threw away when they cut my skin and made me bleed.  Some of the shards are so precious and sparkly that I put them in a floating ball filled with bubbles and hold it high above my head with such care that no beast can reach them.  And then I begin to dance, slowly, ever so slowly, with hope, listening to each musical note carefully, expectantly, waiting for the next one. My shards are in a new place now where there is light and goodness and beauty. 

My gown now looks like a has been, worn out rock and roller desperate for another gig.   Battered and ripped, it hangs off my shoulders like a shredded bungy cord.  I feel sorry for it.  And so I ordered two new gowns for a fresh start.  The gowns came from the same company as the gown I was wearing that morning.  They are exactly the same size and made from the same material, but they don’t fit.  They feel tight and scratchy.  They are too new.  My breasts explode from them.  They actually hurt to wear.  And so most of the time they stay in the drawer and I wear the gown I was wearing that morning.  My daughters can wear the new gowns someday.  They will be full of hope, full of plans, soft, and supporting new life just like my gown and I were once upon a time.    

Sometimes the screaming in my head gets really loud, so loud that I cannot hear my heart beat and sometimes I hear only random, agonizing wails.  I hold my daughters close to me.  We are better.  I hold them when I go to bed at night, wearing my gown.  I cover myself with a robe, too ashamed to be seen.  My gown is now a mourning gown, not a gown to wear in the morning, but a gown to grieve over all that has been lost.   I wear it to remember.  I wear it to forget.  I wear it.  It will never go away.  It will always be with me.  And my daughters wear it too.