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bereft, mourning 71 Mourning Jacqueline Lapidus Living in Greece I learned why so many women wore black: a year for parents, for a husband forever, telling the neighbors take care of me, I am weak with grief, I have turned to ash inside. The clothes made each day easier, everything matched. You, like most New Yorkers, hardly noticed how long I wore black for my mother, black is what everyone wears. But when you died, my friends here found it morbid, year after year a shadow of my former self. You would have been the first to say isn’t it time to stop now? A smoky scarf, a lavender top, my summer whites and finally, last fall, Mom’s tailored brown tweed suit. I had gained so much weight, it fit me. Now I can wear sage and lime, I can imagine this summer in pastels, but yellow, red and coral hang in the closet, too painful. I try, then put them back. ...

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