"My great-great Grandmother's Clutch"
I left my clutch inside an emergency fire extinguisher last night. But perhaps I should go a way back further, seeing as that very well may mean nothing to you now.
Yesterday morning I woke up, exhaled feeling like I was inhaling, and prepared for a long day.
It was early.
But I found time to watch a
snippet of the sunrise. I wish I could've stayed there all day.
Skipping forward to the brink of evening: My sister Sarah saved my night by curling my locks of long and tangly hair; my mother saved my night running errands and fixing my long, eccentric, floral dress. It was black with warm coloured flowers reaching up the hem and falling from the chest, and is 'made for royalty' as my Mom put it. When my wondrous preparations were finished, I felt regal and despite the fact my hardly displayed any make-up apart from a berry-blood lipstick I'm deeply in love with on my plump lips and a heavy, lengthy amount of mascara that resembles ink in my eyes.
So, with porcelain skin, sparkling jewels and black, sheer shoes I could drool over, I was complete.
Well, almost.
A few days ago...I found my great-great grandmother's clutch from the 1920's. It's safe to say I fell in ardent adoration for them (a gold one and a creme, floral one) but you see, my mother and I do not see old things the same. Needles to say, she was not too keen on the idea of me taking my great (2X) Grandmother's clutch to a high school dance. But I knew better than to ask anyway or even allow the idea to ask slip in, for I knew the answer I would receive already. It was put from my mind almost the moment it entered.
Almost.
After a long day at school the day after my mother and my "artifact escapade", I came into my room and was delighted to find a small creme clutch waiting for me on my bed and oh, how I love my mother so! She allowed me to bring it only if I promised to keep it safe--I've never agreed to something so quickly in my life! So on the night of the dance, you can understand why I was so elated to bring it with me and I almost managed to fit a tube of lipstick, 2 ponytails, 3 pieces of gum, my great (2X) grandmother's make-up mirror and her small pretty comb AND a BOOK ("
Fahrenheit 451" to exact).
But tragically, Ray Bradbury had to go. My mother insisted, even though I had no intentions of reading it (it simply calms me down knowing I have at least one friend I can trust there) and the clutch didn't seem perfectly keen on the idea either so alas, my friend stayed home.
Dash forward even more, into the night now and now we are at the Capital Building for a breathtaking dance. Every which way is encased with white marble stone and from the balcony it looks as though the ballroom floor has been dipped in pinpricks of paint and twirling flowers. The girls look ravishing and the boys very sharp. I actually approved of the style this year as it leaned on a more 1920's fashion of embroidered gowns at the top and flowy or mermaid styled bottoms. There were sporadic blasts of ball gowns and many dresses alike, but mine was never seen twice.
Never.
I felt like a glamorous queen trailing down the marble staircase.
It was a dream once I stole a moment to stop and look around at everybody and the prepossessing atmosphere.
Once I sat on the ledge of the balcony, leaning over and caught my breath at the sight below me.
Later I remarked that it seemed more like a dinner party than anything else, with all the lights on (never once turned off, sadly) and the couples socializing every which way. The small packs of dinner tables and cookies and beverages beside them--it felt all too elegant (in the best sense).
I would've given anything to have snuck up to the restricted third floor where the guards overlooked us and paced back and forth back and forth, but I never got around to it. We almost slid into the elevator with a janitorial lady, but the chance slid us by. We tried to wait in line for pictures several times, but kept running (and I mean
running) off to dance to a good song (not always easy to catch, mind you) and later found ourselves in line for the fourth time at the last call for pictures by the stairs.
At times it felt almost hypnotic to feel the soft clicks of my shoes on the marble floor and drink in every last twirling couple and bright chandelier from up above. I often found myself with my head tipped back and my long curled hair lightly touching the bottom of my thigh, gazing at the beautifully crafted ceiling and the guards pacing slowly just below it. With my curious eyes catching many other's around me I was contented to finally meet mine with Rachel's later, closer to the end of the dance.
Oh,
how I missed her so!
But I was unraveled by something that night.
Some of the other girls in my group were looking for a place to stash their heels so they could dance and later found me and showed me where they put them and I was impressed to find it was a fire extinguisher nook that looked more like a small fancy window no one would really look to open. How clever, thought I and so, in my lovely flower speckled clutch went. It felt safe tucked inside that curious nook, but little did I know I kept much more in there than a simple family hand bag.
My heels never left my feet that night and let's just say it was for fear of boys stepping on my gown in the center of the dance or the same fate befalling my poor toes as well. I'll let you know it's a ruthless, aggressive battlefield out there on the dance floor. But it was exhilarating with my friends and the pumping music--even with the lights on.
Come close of our jocund, exciting dance we ended with a slow song I can't remember and pictures on the staircase with all our girl friends.
But something was amiss.
I discovered it on my way home (on what seemed to be the longest car ride of my life). I thought about the clutch I brought and how soundly it slept inside its protection and then it hit me:
My heart was inside my clutch.
Where there should've been a book, there was an organ of definitive nature and pulsing infinities.
My heart...
My sighing, waiting, sad little heart.
If only I'd checked the pockets of this clutch, emptied out its contents, letting my fingers thumb between the folds of my keeper and then nothing would've been so ambiguous. My heart was unopened and alone because it wasn't inside me, it wasn't there.
I kept checking for a heartbeat on my throat, but faintly sensed one far away.
To think it was carried inside my hand and not my body... What a
peculiar thought!
But the comb and the mirror and the lipstick were nothing compared to the open, dripping presence of my heart. It seemed as if it were leaking out of my bag when my eyes met another's, but sneaking back in at most other moments. "It must've felt abandoned," I first thought, "all alone inside that nook."
But I was wrong.
I was the one who was alone and it was the one completely protected.
To imagine that all it would take fro the one to find it is a turn of a knob and the unclasping of a handbag and then--it was yours. The trouble is no one's looking. And if they are, they're looking in the wrong places. A hint to anyone looking for Pauline's heart:
It's not and never shall be in a place most expected, like a safe, an abandoned birdcage, or a shoebox under my bed (beneath my mattress is innocent too).
Though I won't tell you where, I will tell you this: My heart is never empty enough to feel alone, though it is. If you wish to find it, the mere act of looking might be enough to show you where to go.
What a handsome place it once stayed inside my great-great Grandmother's clutch. Who knows if her heart has been there also.
What a night. What a dream.
What a clutch.
(k.p.b)
