When the Storm Breaks
She stood at the kitchen sink, staring skyward as the storm blew in. The juice glass from this morning breakfast was in one hand waiting to be cleaned, the tea towel embellished with red, white, and blue fruits in the other. She stood frozen, as she had been for most of the last month. Frozen in actions, frozen in thought, and frozen in feeling: just, frozen. Frozen in that moment when the knock at come at the front door. Frozen in the moment when she’d opened the letter the men had handed her. Frozen in the moment when she’d been told he was Missing in Action, presumed dead. Presumed dead. Presumed. And so now all that was left for her was to stand frozen in time until presumed turned into something else, until the ice inside her thawed enough so that her heart could shatter.
She glanced at the calendar hanging from the chalkware hook in the shape of an orange, it’s cartoon eyes smiling huge and grotesque. Today’s date was circled with a heart in red pen. September 15, 1945: her wedding day. Today was supposed to be her wedding day, but instead, today he was presumed dead.
She still wore the ring, platinum crowned with a prong set diamond. The tea towel she held was from her trousseau. Her wedding gown hung ready and waiting in the middle bedroom closet. The tables that had so proudly displayed all the wedding gifts had been discreetly removed by her parents one night while she lay in bed pretending to sleep, many of the gifts quietly returned to those who had sent them. Life moved around her at a hush, everyone continuing on with their day to day existence, but with a delicacy as though on ice. His father still sent letters with news of his brothers, and words of hope and encouragement. She read them. She felt nothing but a sucking void.
She stood at the sink and looked at the sky, the sky that had been a second home to him. She watched as the dark clouds roiled across the town, turning the sky from gray to black. The wind began to rage against the window, and then the rain came in cutting, slashing sheets. She thought “this must have been what he saw at the end. This is what took him from me.” And in that moment she saw it: she saw the plane being battered with wind and rain, she heard the scream of the wind around the cockpit and the static as he tried to contact the squadron flying with him without success. She saw the instruments fail and the dials begin to spin and then stop. And then she knew he’d looked at the photo of her taped to his instrument panel, the one where she wore his ring and his wings and smiled her soft closed lip smile in the backyard of this home, and he’d whispered “Marjie” as his plane hit the water.
That day she folded the red white and blue fruit covered tea towels and pillow cases, the sheets and doilies and all the contents of the trousseau. She wrapped them with the scrap book that held the notes, and the photos, the news clippings, the telegraphs and the trinkets. And then, she slipped the ring off her hand and back into it’s celluloid box. She placed all those things in a chest, and with them she placed her heart, and stored them away, never to be seen again.
She stood at the kitchen sink, staring skyward as the storm blew in. The juice glass from this morning breakfast was in one hand waiting to be cleaned, the tea towel embellished with red, white, and blue fruits in the other. She stood frozen, as she had been for most of the last month. Frozen in actions, frozen in thought, and frozen in feeling: just, frozen. Frozen in that moment when the knock at come at the front door. Frozen in the moment when she’d opened the letter the men had handed her. Frozen in the moment when she’d been told he was Missing in Action, presumed dead. Presumed dead. Presumed. And so now all that was left for her was to stand frozen in time until presumed turned into something else, until the ice inside her thawed enough so that her heart could shatter.
She glanced at the calendar hanging from the chalkware hook in the shape of an orange, it’s cartoon eyes smiling huge and grotesque. Today’s date was circled with a heart in red pen. September 15, 1945: her wedding day. Today was supposed to be her wedding day, but instead, today he was presumed dead.
She still wore the ring, platinum crowned with a prong set diamond. The tea towel she held was from her trousseau. Her wedding gown hung ready and waiting in the middle bedroom closet. The tables that had so proudly displayed all the wedding gifts had been discreetly removed by her parents one night while she lay in bed pretending to sleep, many of the gifts quietly returned to those who had sent them. Life moved around her at a hush, everyone continuing on with their day to day existence, but with a delicacy as though on ice. His father still sent letters with news of his brothers, and words of hope and encouragement. She read them. She felt nothing but a sucking void.
She stood at the sink and looked at the sky, the sky that had been a second home to him. She watched as the dark clouds roiled across the town, turning the sky from gray to black. The wind began to rage against the window, and then the rain came in cutting, slashing sheets. She thought “this must have been what he saw at the end. This is what took him from me.” And in that moment she saw it: she saw the plane being battered with wind and rain, she heard the scream of the wind around the cockpit and the static as he tried to contact the squadron flying with him without success. She saw the instruments fail and the dials begin to spin and then stop. And then she knew he’d looked at the photo of her taped to his instrument panel, the one where she wore his ring and his wings and smiled her soft closed lip smile in the backyard of this home, and he’d whispered “Marjie” as his plane hit the water.
That day she folded the red white and blue fruit covered tea towels and pillow cases, the sheets and doilies and all the contents of the trousseau. She wrapped them with the scrap book that held the notes, and the photos, the news clippings, the telegraphs and the trinkets. And then, she slipped the ring off her hand and back into it’s celluloid box. She placed all those things in a chest, and with them she placed her heart, and stored them away, never to be seen again.
She stood at the kitchen sink, staring skyward as the storm blew in. The juice glass from this morning breakfast was in one hand waiting to be cleaned, the tea towel embellished with red, white, and blue fruits in the other. She stood frozen, as she had been for most of the last month. Frozen in actions, frozen in thought, and frozen in feeling: just, frozen. Frozen in that moment when the knock at come at the front door. Frozen in the moment when she’d opened the letter the men had handed her. Frozen in the moment when she’d been told he was Missing in Action, presumed dead. Presumed dead. Presumed. And so now all that was left for her was to stand frozen in time until presumed turned into something else, until the ice inside her thawed enough so that her heart could shatter.
She glanced at the calendar hanging from the chalkware hook in the shape of an orange, it’s cartoon eyes smiling huge and grotesque. Today’s date was circled with a heart in red pen. September 15, 1945: her wedding day. Today was supposed to be her wedding day, but instead, today he was presumed dead.
She still wore the ring, platinum crowned with a prong set diamond. The tea towel she held was from her trousseau. Her wedding gown hung ready and waiting in the middle bedroom closet. The tables that had so proudly displayed all the wedding gifts had been discreetly removed by her parents one night while she lay in bed pretending to sleep, many of the gifts quietly returned to those who had sent them. Life moved around her at a hush, everyone continuing on with their day to day existence, but with a delicacy as though on ice. His father still sent letters with news of his brothers, and words of hope and encouragement. She read them. She felt nothing but a sucking void.
She stood at the sink and looked at the sky, the sky that had been a second home to him. She watched as the dark clouds roiled across the town, turning the sky from gray to black. The wind began to rage against the window, and then the rain came in cutting, slashing sheets. She thought “this must have been what he saw at the end. This is what took him from me.” And in that moment she saw it: she saw the plane being battered with wind and rain, she heard the scream of the wind around the cockpit and the static as he tried to contact the squadron flying with him without success. She saw the instruments fail and the dials begin to spin and then stop. And then she knew he’d looked at the photo of her taped to his instrument panel, the one where she wore his ring and his wings and smiled her soft closed lip smile in the backyard of this home, and he’d whispered “Marjie” as his plane hit the water.
That day she folded the red white and blue fruit covered tea towels and pillow cases, the sheets and doilies and all the contents of the trousseau. She wrapped them with the scrap book that held the notes, and the photos, the news clippings, the telegraphs and the trinkets. And then, she slipped the ring off her hand and back into it’s celluloid box. She placed all those things in a chest, and with them she placed her heart, and stored them away, never to be seen again.
This one of a kind garment is made from two cotton tea towels and two pieces of cotton dead stock fabric circa 1945. 100% handmade by the artist
Measurements: Bust: up to 48” Waist up to 48” Front length 18” Sleeve length 16” shoulder to end
Care Instructions and General Information: This one of a kind blouse is fashioned from a linens that are approximately 75 years old. It should be hand washed in cold water and laid flat to dry, warm iron with starch to preserve crispness. Due to the age there may be minor discolorations or areas of wear commiserate with age. This is normal and to be considered as part of the beauty of the garment
NO returns or exchanges due to the one of a kind nature of the garment