Fall From Grace
Slipping my hand to separate olive brown curtains but a fraction, enough only for a sliver of sunlight to penetrate a corner of my self imposed prison. My eyes rest upon needlepoint as a pang of loss stabs, as if I was plucked from my old life and discarded into my present life. My amber eyes trace my stitchwork, 'Amelia' stitched lovingly in calligraphy with gold embroidery thread. A pattern, once so proud of designing, now lay forgotten on my favorite sitting chair. My name floated above a beautifully shaped feminine hand done in a satin stitch, with viny morning glories wrapping around each digit. Vines transitioning nonchalantly into dangling gold chains dripping with small teardrop emeralds, as though the stem weeps through the Victorian French filigree, magically transforming into precious stones. Sighing, with a heavy heart, as my eyes sweep my beloved hand carved walnut Victorian antique chair, upholstered in gold and gingerly sprinkled with ivory flowers, yet awaiting my return as though shaming me for being away so long. Grandmother's Edwardian cut crystal lamp's beauty hides under a dusty layer, the lone survivor of a set, she purchased as a newlywed, rest upon a vintage walnut end table on top a champagne crocheted doily.
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