spinning the tale

 This was once snow-white. Part of a bridal trousseau. Italy, c. '30s The fact that it seems to have been never worn, creamy now with time, hints at heartbreak. 

It's made of the finest cotton lawn, delicate, yet still strong. Ankle length. Once I pulled that satin ribbon from under the spider webs of lace under the bustline, it might fit me, so she was no sylph. A woman of substance. But I won't put it on. Won't ever wear it.

Cursed? Perhaps. This would have been the last layer between the blushing bride and her husband. 

Did he leave her at the altar?

Did he die in the war?

What tragedy befell this bride?

That will be part of Angel's story.

I'm going to put this away in the closet for some time.

The tiny slip stitches securing the satin ribbon in place. I actually put this through the washing machine. The other half of the ribbon is in there somewhere. 

These two tiny buttons are all that secures the shoulders.