In the days before these days-past days of jam sessions and late night coffee drinking, she used to wear black. However, this is a more recent snapshot, and she is holding it without commitment by a single edge-as though she finds the image to be disquietingly foreign.
The photo does her justice. Or so she has been told. Hairspray subdued curls. Wrinkle-free brown poly cotton skirt worn with ballet flats. And her blouse. Cream colored crystal pleats-and a bow that ties at her neck. She contemplates herself, and doesn’t see justice in the photo at all. Chokes, in fact, at the remembered uncomfortable sensation of the knot against her throat. Strangulation by Dior.
Yesterday evening, she found on the sidewalk leading away from her house, a dead baby bird. Naked brown skin, (much like the hue of that skirt) its tiny corpse already baked by the sun. Resembling a piece of beef jerky. Or more appropriately, bird jerky. (She used to, in those days of jam sessions and late night coffee drinking, be known for her sense of humor.) But now the humor falls flat.
Because it’s all about feathers, and she doesn’t like hers at all.
And while she knows she couldn’t have done a thing to fix that baby bird, as for herself, for now-at least for the herself in the picture, a black Sharpie marker promises to fix everything.