Edgar Allan Poe, in memoriam
I saw her again last night. Or I thought I did. She was standing at the other end of the corridor, vague yet vividly visible in the half light coming from the dining hall. She was dressed in a light blue frock with a white collar and white frails. Wearing white shoes and white stockings, she had her hair made up in two tiny pigtails. She was standing right there, with a faint smile on her face. I wanted to call out to her, ‘Annabel!’, but I didn’t. Moments later she was gone, how or where I cannot seem to recall. One could say that she just disappeared. My Annabel. Annabel Lee. Beautiful Annabel Lee. I had never seen her face, at least not before I saw her in my mirror, a few days ago, standing right behind me. But I knew it was her. I could tell. I had cherished thoughts of her long enough to recognize her instantly, even in the half light, even at the far end of the corridor. I am not sure why I am seeing her now. It has been a while now, since it all happened. Seven months; seven months to get used to the loss of the body I had treasured inside me for another seven months. My baby, in the guise of lumps of flesh, covered in lumps of blood. I had never seen her face. My baby unborn. My baby born dead. Yet I thought her so beautiful! I haven’t told anyone about my seeing her. I know what they would say. My husband, the doctors. They would say that I am seeing things. Hallucinations. Because of the trauma. They would ask me to prolong my therapy. As if therapy could give me closure. It would probably work though. I would probably stop seeing her; appearing in the corridor, standing behind me in the mirror. I would not see her anymore, the way I did not see her since I lost her. But oh how I love to see her! And she is so beautiful, so beautiful! My Annabel. Annabel Lee.
31 March 2014