Wedding Dress in a Dumpster

I felt strangely emotionless as I stood staring at yards of ruffled, white lace with pearl buttons that went up from the waist to the delicate high-necked collar amidst the trash in the bottom of a filthy dumpster. It was the dumpster behind the apartment I was moving out of.   The dress that I had carefully saved for thirty-two years slightly yellowed by time. The dress I wore when I  made a commitment.  The dress that represented my failed marriage. The dress that I threw in there after asking my girls if they wanted it. It was now a symbol of failure.  It didn’t mean anything anymore. It was just a pile of useless, aged fabric.Someone asked me if there were any good memories.  I tried to remember something but nothing came. Just memories of a life time of rage, bitterness, and the forever damage he caused. Each episode like a dagger shredding and ripping that wedding dress until no more fabric existed. Every single time, I told him that one day, there wouldn’t be anything left.  That he was slowly losing every part of me like grains of sand slipping through an hour glass. He never saw me, I was invisible to him.It was a fitting place for my wedding dress.

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