The Many Shades of White
Lily
She remembers the lilies in the house after her grandmother died, the dizzy perfume, the fluted white blooms, the way the lilies stood out against her mother’s black suit.
Snow
Her dress is as white as the snowflakes falling outside the church. How pure she feels, pure as the unstained blanket of snow, her soul bleached clean. First communion; the wafer white as the skin of an angel.
Satin
She loves her white tutu, its satin bodice and starched frills of net. She shows off wobbly arabesques to everyone who visits the house. Aged thirteen, after she fails her Grade Five Ballet exam, she sweeps the tutu into the dressing-up box. Years later little remains of it but grey dust.
Cotton
The shame of blood spots on her white panties. She scrubs at the stains with soap. The stains fade but they do not disappear. When she is old enough to buy her own underwear, she will always choose black.
Hawthorn
His lips on hers, white daisies in the grass, the hawthorn blossom like a bridal veil, his hand undoing the clasp of her white cotton bra, the pale clouds trembling above.
Ivory
Her father walks her down the aisle in a dress of ivory silk. She is twenty years old. I do, I do, she says, oh yes I do. She believes love lasts forever, that he will be her one and only. There is a white rose in the bouquet she carries. She forgets roses have thorns.
Bleached
Her husband does not want her to use that ‘ecological shit.’ He wants his shirts dazzling white like the adverts on TV. She buys bleach and starch, and irons each shirt from collar to sparkling cuff, even though she promised herself she would never run around after him like his mother still does.
Blossom 1
She plants a cherry, prunus Taihaku, a white flowering species. Her mother-in-law is disappointed she is not yet expecting. It won’t be long, her husband says, winking. Mother-in-law giggles and flushes pink; she pulls at the string of white pearls that hang from her neck.
Blossom 2
The cherry is extravagant with white blossom. It reminds her of snow and her old ballet tutu. As the blossom fades and the petals drift to the ground like confetti, she finds a text on her husband’s phone. A colleague, he says, nothing to fret about. His face is blanched. The red of fury rises in her cheeks.
Harlot and Red
She, wife, soon to be no longer wife, clicks the latch for the last time. The clouds are cotton balls above her head. She is done with white. In town she buys the ‘Mae West’ lipstick and a wine-red dress. He never liked red. A harlot’s colour, he said. She is done with white.
Bronwen Griffiths is the author of two published collections of flash fiction and two novels. Her flash pieces have been published in the UK and the USA, both online and in a number of print anthologies. She lives in East Sussex, UK. She tweets writing and politics at @bronwengwriter
