For when you cry…

Welcome my fellow minions! I have been asked to quote so here I quote with a little story:

“Before I got my eye put out

I liked as well to see-

As other creatures, that have eyes

And know no other way-“

– Emily Dickinson

The entire poem carries a different interpretation; in more of an aesthetic sense originally but my frail attempt to mould the first stanza into my own understanding of the world goes thus:

***

The husband and wife stood outside in their driveway arguing.

“You should have at least asked me. But noo, you had go and spend all our money on that stupid scheme of yours,” shouted the wife, following her husband to his car.

“Our money? Our money! I earn that money. I work hard for that money, scurrying around like a dog all day and you just sit and enjoy the comforts I provide. It’s not our money. It’s my money. I’ll do whatever I want with it.”

“Is that so? I sit around all day, huh? Then who the hell do you think keeps the house clean and working. Who makes sure you don’t starve? Who takes care of the kids, you?”

“Oh, not you definitely! The servants do everything. You just shout at them all day; do this, do that.”

“If that is so easy, then why don’t you it a try one day. Let’s see if you can make those lazy bums do anything.”

“Whatever. I don’t have to ask for your permission for everything. It’s my money and I’ll do as I please. Remember your place, you are my wife not my owner.”

She stood dumbfounded. Had he actually said ‘remember your place, you are my wife.’ What on earth did that even mean? ‘Remember her place.’ She was his wife, not an errant employee who had stepped out of line.

The snap of his car door brought her back.

“I know it won’t work out. Your idiotic scheme. I just know,” she shouted back just in time as he reversed his car and flew away in anger.

“And then you’ll lose everything, all your money.”

An unwelcome spasm of sadness threatened to burst through her eyes as she stood alone in front of the white marble covered arched entryway of her house. But not yet; she steeled herself. Not in front of everyone, not in front of the servants. The betrayal, the belittlement she felt was private, not a public display for the help.

With a quivering lower lip masked by an expression of superior indifference she walked through the house quickly to reach her room, never once lowering her eyes to meet a daring glare.

They would gossip she was sure but for now she didn’t care. She collapsed on the floor near the foot of her bed and let the tiny drops rain down her cheek; silently at first, afraid that anyone could hear. But did it really matter? She thought as sobs of moist loneliness consumed her heart. She felt empty, like a wooden puppet. Did he really think so little of her? She had always caught a hint of dominion in his manner but isn’t that how all men are?

‘I am his wife’ she had always said with a tender pride; ‘You are my wife’ he had spat with a contemptuous command.

A soft patter of steps outside her room broke her musings. She looked up with tear filled eyes to find a little girl looking at her from behind the half closed door. Upon seeing that she had caught her attention the little one ran away.

Those urchins! She cursed. She had specifically asked the servants not to bring their kids to the house after the vase breaking incident a year ago. God knows how carefully she had to watch them lest someone pocket a trinket or two. No one could trust the maids already; they were forever in search of an opportunity.

With reluctance she made the decision to get up and close the door but before she could the little girl returned. Putting one unsure foot in front of the other she approached and presented her misery crusted self with a red rose plucked fresh from the garden.

With a soft smile the little one said,” You are so pretty mistress. Please don’t cry.”

And just like that the worthless became valued and the valued worthless.

***

A many thanks to fauxcroft for his/her kind nomination for the three day quote challenge. Do visit the site to climb the poignant constructs of poetry residing there.

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I will be waiting to hear how you all found this piece.

Picture credit: pixabay