Tears on a Dress

Another person wore that wistful off white dress, shimmering with
captured starlight and glacial tears. It used to be me.

I blinked.

The purring Jaguar XKR carried me to a different life. Surrounded by
Aston Martins and Porches, It prowled in the car park with a growl. It
was meant to be there. Famous faces and designer frocks drifted by like
vague friends. Late sun hung mellow over lush Sussex landscape, its
intense air carrying the plaintive sound of orchestral strings and the
sensuous montage of expensive perfume and crushed grass, a perfect
evening at the summer opera.

Comfortable in his Saville Row tux, I thought I loved this man I
thought he loved me.

I blinked.

It was another life, best seats in the house. Lunch at Claridges.
Dinner with Raymond Blanc. Winter sunshine in the South of France.
Shopping in Paris. Sipping steaming coffee in a Brussels cafe. His life
not mine.

I blinked.

He wanted a woman of wit, wiles and wisdom. Someone who could talk to
politicians or pop stars - could sparkle like the dress - be a beacon
to shine his light.

"Come live with me, leave this tedium behind."

But that couldn't be me.

I blinked.

He was gone.

Of course I cried. Echoes of the opera dress, fragile crystal tears for
a broken heart. But it wasn't my heart; it belonged to the woman in
that dress.

I opened my eyes.

Here is my life.

Three daughters grown, but not enough to leave our cosy home. A man,
tall, with a naughty smile, sometimes dawdling; a man who loves me. He
soaks up our unity spreads it all around, and everyone is touched by
our gladness, our passion - our life. This is love. He loves me.
Not a woman in an opera dress.