A depressed Victorian wife, who lives with her mother-in-law, daydreams about her husband's sudden demise.

This is just a little something from my writer's journal.

                                                                    IMAGINED

                                                                            by

                                                                 MaryFallon Fleming

                                                         Copyright February 8, 1992

I imagined the coffin lay in the parlor. David's mother was in black, and so was I. The people came to call, people I didn't know; they had known David all his life.

I imagined I looked very pale in my stark black frock, but I didn't cry. I must be in shock, I was thinking to myself. The people were standing over the coffin. David's face was so peaceful, the long white hands folded softly across his breast. He looked very fine in his tailored navy suit, his boy's face unbearably handsome and white against the somber satin lining of the coffin.

Navy looks well on David. I imagined myself thinking this, as David's mother poured tea into fluted demi-tasses for all the guests who had come to call. Robotically I stared into mine, thinking of David's hands. The porcelain cup was delicate like eggshell. It was stained with deeply purple flowers and gilded heavily with gold.

My throat was tight. My eyes brimmed all at once, and I was afraid that I would cry, in front of David's mother and all those people I didn't know. My fingers trembled on the gilded porcelain handle, the teacup tinkled daintily against the lovely matching saucer.

Then one tear, all alone, traced a shiny path across my cheek; I imagined it was so.