1944 (two chairs)

I wake to natural light, no sound, not even a clock. Adrift on waves of white linen and down pillows and a burgundy comforter embroidered in gold. Somewhere, a hint of lavender infused with woodsmoke, of plain soap, of the coffee not on my nightstand, of the dampness of cold milk, of the croissant I forgot to order.

The poster bed seems larger than it should. Like a jacket a size too big. No matter how I move, hands or legs, back and shoulders, I can't make it fit. Strangely, I feel watched. Four pineappled post, silent sentinels, ramrod straight. Adorned in epaulettes of fruit carved, by hand or machine I cannot tell. Each looking without looking and I wonder of the things they've heard, the sights they've seen, the nights they shook.

From the balcony, light slats the rug and I can tell the sun is not hindered with cloud. And the thought occurs that the sun will do its work alone and for reasons hard to explain, I find some comfort in the thought, some desire to walk the beach and feel that solitary touch of warmth on this winter day. I can also see what I did not see last night. Upon the balcony. Two chairs.

They were there last night as I drank and imbibed Puccini, allowing myself the luxury of an indulgence I'd not had in France. I suppose in the same way the bill for whiskey comes in the morning, not the night. And what I had drowned in the dusk, and cast to the wind of an ocean night, would not be denied in the harshness of a sun long at work. This room was meant for two. A place for lovers. A retreat from the ordinary, from the machinery of commerce, where breakfast came on a tray and juice was squeezed and robes were thick, luxurious, and hung by twos. Belts tied round tiny invisible waists with collars rich as pelt splayed upon rosewood hangers. He is not here. He will never be here. I cannot state the fact more clearly.

I slip a robe over my bare skin. Poke the fireplace. Turn a chair to the french doors. And begin to write, all that I can remember, every detail, no matter how small. His name was Virgil. Immediately, I draw a line through these words as I had drawn breath at their sight. I begin again. His name is Virgil. I stop. Hold the pen across my lips. Let those four works soak into my morning, in my memory. And I am the widow that never was. The maid never married. And I hold a story within my heart without an audience. My burden is my own.