When black lace gloves are laid on finely polished wooden dressers and the long procession is over, in stillness she sits at her beauty vanity and stares into the mirror. Thoughts of sorrow and anger forcefully take over. Silent tears stream as she wipes off her makeup; clothes are taken off and left strewn on varnished wooden floors. To crawl into bed is all she can muster; he is gone now, and will never come back to her. And what of the children’s tears? She must grieve in painful secrecy for they need the strength of their mother. Fall has come, and alone in tearful anguish she awaits the bitter cold of the winter.
Intimate Compositions 