Skirts, and other histories
I found myself in this old palazzo yesterday darling.
I wanted to take a walk before breakfast, so I headed out to find the weather in the village was in its usual dark and dreary state. I walked the cobble stone streets, nodding to baker who was placing more gingerbread beasts on the windowsill and the woman who hides her smiles with her scarves, when I noticed a palazzo I had never seen before.
It was a strange entity, standing there, somewhat cut off from the rest of the houses in the village. It had an aura of brightness around it, as if the weather would only stand to be cheery to it and nothing else. I walked towards it and, climbing its wide front steps, I pushed through the heavy front door to find the sun was even brighter inside.
There were women in skirts and sleeked back hair everywhere I turned. They looked like summer — an effortless breed with untainted skin, and skirts that moved as slowly as time does on a summer afternoon. They paced around the large rooms, heeding to no one, focused solely on the rhythm of their ensemble.
I stood in the entrance hall as their skirts flowed on stairs, skimmed through corridors and brushed the walls. They wore different colours, suggesting a historical journey through the divinity of gold, the human enlightenment of the white cottons; the religiosity of blue and the black synthetics and pollution born in the industrial world*.
It was a reverential procession these women were performing, for the historical time imbued in their skirt. They did not notice me, nor would they ever; they kept pacing around the halls and stairs of that palazzo, unaffected, as all of us here in the village are, by the passing of time on the clock.
Story credit: Silvina Maestro for the inspiration* and the images.