La Savoisienne

Hair parted down the middle, she is equal and her eyes do not care who anymore. She can feel alone even on the street, periodically bumping shoulders and the succession of faces looking forward in the cold. It is better to sew at a small table near a window on the second floor. Tonight the nurse startled her from behind by saying hello in an even voice. Actually anyone who speaks when she is alone for too long. There are at least seven kinds of loneliness. And last night when she could not speak in a dream although her mouth was urgent. Hidden beneath the floor boards, if she could only scream now as they walk by. It counts because she remembers it. A loneliness like being born remembering. Always in the same body and her hair is always wild from turning on the pillow. More often than not, people say nothing or simply look away when they leave a room. The butler’s fiancé did not write so as not to miss him more. And the letter from her older sister apologizing for death: I do not know what I am anymore. In the morning, she must button her long, white-collared dress up from the waist. Then her face in the mirror inside the cloud-like blue bonnet she pins in her hair is a sublimation, a portrait of earth.