a mourning dress

black silk crape, dense and matte, the kind of black that does not reflect. high collar trimmed in a finger of black lace. jet buttons down the centre, sixteen of them, none missing. a long skirt that falls into a small train, the hem dusted by a corridor she walked twice a day for one year.

worn last on the anniversary of the year it began, then folded and put away with intention. she did not return to it. afterwards came small colours — slate, charcoal, dove — and then, gradually, alizarin. the dress remained in the cupboard, holding the year for her so she did not have to.

it shares the rail with the paisley shawl that was worn with it, and with a small grief still folded into the seams. the cupboard is at the cold end of the house. nobody opens it more than once a season.

field-note: an envelope sewn into the inner placket, empty, addressed in her hand to a person she did not send it to.