Stained White Blouse


Regret is the stained white blouse of innocence. And I know this because I’ve seen it discolor right before my very eyes. I’ve seen a child grow into a man as he learned of pain and sorrow through drooping eyes and death of love. His skin now wrinkles and his hair grays as the sorrow in his eyes are permanently imbedded there. And though he smiles from time to time, experiencing the true joy of a hardy laugh and a blue sky, he always falls asleep in his dreary gray, wooden, mold scented room with nostalgic thoughts in his head. Though he doesn’t cry; and I’d say what makes him a man is his acceptance of what he cannot change. I am a woman of old age and I envy this ability, as I often cry over lost time.

This stained white blouse is the regret of innocence. It was once a beautiful pure white garment. But over the years, as time helps to change many things, it has yellowed in the sun and wrinkled with the wind. The breeze still blows it easily, as it ripples on the clothesline; but it’s a bit more brown, from spills of hot cocoa and dried up tears. Bleach can only do so much for purifying a no longer innocent cloth. And over the years I have wondered and cringed and hoped that maybe someday, somehow there will be a way for me to go back in time to prevent and release the stains, and to once again wear a guiltless, irreproachable white cloth.

This man that I have seen grow, is not a sad man. But as my grandson, you can tell that he thinks and dreams of a life of possibility while physically being trapped in a world that is restricting on the heart and lungs. Our souls are very much alike. We understand the impossibility of possibility, and we can only control ourselves, though actions of others can still hurt us and push us down. But if there were a way for this stained white blouse and this regret of lost time and embarrassment to become a bloodless ivory sponge once again, it is in the hands of others. Accept us, and tell us we are perfect.

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