Marmoire short writing piece

 

For Advanced Creative Writing class, we were asked to write many pieces and examine others' work and draw from our own life experiences to create new pieces in many formats. One format we were assigned was called a  "Marmoire" which is designed to be a memoire to both our memories to our armoire (a type of clothing storage unit like a closet or dresser in today's world). 

This type of writing piece could focus on the perspective of any object you own as a lens for viewing a specific memory. For our pieces, we were focused specifically on articles of clothing. So I would like to share my own "Marmoire" with you now:

Self Preservation

    White T-shirt with butterflies and blooming roses in shades of blue spill down your chest. Every day you want to wear this shirt. It is dressy enough to wear for your junior high graduation. You walk up the aisle to collect your certificate on stage; slouching in the pictures. You do not want to be seen. You walk back through the gym with your peers in pairs. You leave for your sister’s graduation the same night; more pictures. Your sister wears her black and gold robes.

Your sister buys you Coldstone ice cream in that shirt. Your hands and tongue are as frigid as the blues covering your stomach. She snaps pictures in the gazebo at Waterfront park. You forgot your sunglasses and freckles stand out on your cheeks. You wear cobalt nature on your front, crisp against the stark white. Collect green, blue, and clear sea glass at Hall’s Harbour.

The collar is not too low for school, you can be free of a camisole’s restriction to your breathing; the modern corset. You meet new friends in this shirt; blue roses and butterflies as a friendly hello. You race them across the amphitheatre shielded by thorn bushes and deep magenta roses. You pick fallen mushy petals off the steps. Chuck rose hips as you form your own pair and outgrow your favourite top. Within the year a stain has found its way onto the dulled white, the silk-screened flowers peeling back their petals. The butterfly wings tear away from the fabric.

 

Purple Baby-doll Shirt is loose, it flows past your waist like a dress. You love it. You pair it with headbands and learn how to put your hair up in a ponytail. The puffy sleeves make your broad shoulders more feminine. Navy blue splotches bleed into the purple like paint. It reminds you of an art project you did with smooth mauve pastels once. You feel creative and free. You wear it to the ocean over your swimsuit. You fly from your neighbor’s trampoline, the air catches underneath it like a parachute. You appear dressed up on the Halifax waterfront on your parent’s anniversary. It is your first date shirt of choice.

You wear it to school and your peers tease you. They say you look fat. Baby-doll shirts are for pregnant teenagers. You wear it anyway. At the local farm market, you carry your baby nephew. His hands dip down the elastic shirt front just as he would collect the warmth from his mother’s skin. You remove his hand, but the child does not understand language, let alone the word inappropriate. Strangers watch you carry your adorable nephew. His large eyes gather no attention. They only glare at you in this baby-doll shirt. They only see a knocked-up teenager. They see lies.

You unfurl a letter on a comfy Christmas morning. It holds words from your sister, images of the two of you. In them you wear the same shirt you are in now. Moments of smiles are captured in the darkening sunset of that top; the hiking trails you explored across Nova Scotia, bridges you crossed, alpacas you first encountered on Open Farm day, and eating pasta salad at picnics. You create memories while wearing an art piece none of your peers appreciated.  

 

Pink Hoodie that your mother bought you for Christmas. You had specified zippers, no pull-overs that are difficult to get on and off with a possibility of strangulation. You outgrew pink years ago and every piece of clothing you own is blue. You find the sweater is not too soft as to suffocate you. You yank at the neck but find you love this sweater. It reminds you of your mother’s smiling face each time you pull it over your head.

You grab the same hoodie that is clean the night of your grandmother’s visitation. It covers your dark shirt for mourning like a joke when you remove your winter coat. You find the thumb holes to fiddle away your discomfort around these distant relatives. A dead body preserved in the corner as though it is natural to be on display after the life has left her pale skin. One of your aunts squeezes your ribs in this sweater and calls you skinny like it is the most powerful compliment. All you can think about is the supper you missed to be here and why you wore bright pink by mistake to a funeral home.

              You hike up Blomidon trail in the fall. The warmth and vibrant pink protects you from the cold and seasonal hunters. The straight seams create a box around you, falling flat over your stomach in pictures. You think of your slender aunt’s comment. The fresh air soaks into the fabric. You want to preserve that ocean smell drifting through the forest on Blomidon mountain.

This is the first item you see in your closet; glowing blush in the dark. You know pulling a sweater over your head in class is distracting; you only choose it for outside adventures. It is your we-might-go-to-Peggy’s-Cove-after-the-beach sweater, your help-your-father-with-a-project sweater. This hoodie that fits your wide shoulders, long waist, and always stays clean; it is what you wear the first time you take a selfie.

The End 

I hope you enjoyed this short piece of writing and he accompanying photos for a fun reference. I could not locate the writer who seemingly coined this phrase, as it was an online piece written by a female author we referenced in school years ago, however, if you are curious, you can try to search for it and feel free to comment below if you find it to give them some credit as our class's inspiration. 

 

(photo of me in purple top by ocean, photographed by my father)

(photo of me hiking in pink hoodie, photographed by my mother)

(photo of me in white and blue top for casual-dress graduation, photographed by my mother)

We all have clothing items or other personal items we find brings up memories, so I encourage you to try writing a piece about them and see how it turns out. At the very least, you might have some fun reminiscing. 

-Julia May