When you're not good enough to own one. |
Monogrammed Handkerchief There’s a pink box, with a black satin ribbon and the handkerchiefs are inside. They’re winter-white and thick, with paper smooth corners and my initials are stitched on. These are far too fine for the likes of me. I cry softly into coffee, and wipe the tears onto my sleeve. The thickness of the cotton, and the marble-sleek edges of the corners, remind me that my skin is far too rough for the softness of their touch. I cry for the pearls in my trinket box, the ones that peel and lose their sheen, and for the diamonds in my earrings, which will never aspire to cut the glass. There is mismatched silverware in the kitchen and the china’s made in China, full of finespun cracks and fractures. The sheets are thin, and my eiderdown molts its feathers, yet, still I like to hide under them, to pretend I’m more than this. I believe that to be worthy of pampered tears, I should know which fork best spears the food. I should understand the importance of wine, and never leave red-lip kisses on crystal rims. If I were to cry into those handkerchiefs, I’d mourn the life I’ve never had. There’d be wails for all the things I could have been, and sobs for the days that never were. In the pretty pink box, the one with the black satin ribbon, the linens rest easy with my initials tattooed in their skin, waiting for a different life. Despite the touch of my hopeful fingers, these fingers with dirt crusted under the nails, these handkerchiefs remain pure, and will never be soiled. |