A black dress is hanging in my room, visible, ready for action. It makes me think on how black can have such different meanings.
We wear black when we want to feel sexy, when we want to be elegant, when we go to a funeral.
We wear black on those days we want to believe we are sophisticated Parisians.
We wear black when our mood is not the brightest.
I’ve known of black lace underwear, black shoes, black scarves, black hats, even black souls.
Can you wear a black soul?
Yeah, I guess you can.
I’ve been wearing a black soul for the past 2 months.
Tomorrow will be the last day. One more act of ceremony and there it goes. The black soul, the black dress.
Bye, bye, black. I hope I don’t have to see you again… at least, in a while.
Dad, I love you. We both know this was for the best.
the muses came to me last night and almost in trance I wrote this. I’m not saying it’s good; I’m saying it’s honest.
This morning, when I left my home I felt cold.
I told myself it was about time,
that it was needed.
But later, after a while, I regretted it.
I like wearing scarves. I hate gloves.
There’s nothing better than thick thights,
and knit hats.
Wearing coats always makes me think
of little cauliflowers with layers.
Little or big,
layer, layer, layer.
Wearing coats makes me think of my grandma,
who only had a black coat,
a skirt she sew herself,
some pointy shoes with short heels.
And shirts. Loads of shirts.
But she wore her coat,
her gold earrings,
In spite of which she was the fanciest woman in the world.
Winter reminds me of her.
She died on March, when the cold was about to leave.
The night before, I walked around the city,
barely imagining that I’d lose her in the early morning.
She, like her memory,
makes me cold.
Not the kind of cold that bad things produce.
Cold because I miss her
and because she’s the example of how not to survive winter.
She almost made it.
When I think of my grandma,
I think of winter.
Winter, which forced her to carry a blanket at home,
to avoid sitting on a room,
to wear gloves.
Winter is the last thing my grandma lived,
and the only thing she wasn’t able to relive.
Well, maybe not the only thing.
So, the question was, how to survive winter?
Thinking that summer will arrive.
And if it doesn’t…
let’s hope we don’t notice.
This song, originally by Bob Dylan, can always make me cry. If you haven’t listened to it yet, I fervently recommend you to do it. Now.
This is my favorite cover, sang by Adele.