I thought, or maybe just hoped, that monogramming everything for our wedding would somehow keep me from getting divorced again. On the 3rd try, I was willing to try anything. It seemed like an appropriate accompanying commitment, to join our fancy linens the way we were joining ourselves together. What I did not foresee, of course, was the divorce, and the awkwardness of setting a table for people who knew my ex and therefore knew whose initials those were. Even if they didn’t know him, I knew what that monogram stood for: another failure. I donated all the napkins that just had a simple “C” embroidered on them, thinking that there were plenty of people with that monogram who might appreciate some extra fanciness in their lives. The table runner, though, with a 3 letter decoration that included my initials and his, seemed too specific. Also, I love the fabric on the reverse, where there is no monogram, so I have used it with that side showing. I still knew it was there though. Like Poe’s Telltale Heart, taunting me with its existence, a hidden reminder.
Today I have begun ripping out the monogram, 4 years post-divorce. As I work on it, it reminds me of the romantic ideas I had about monogrammed linens, ideas I believe I got from Frances Mayes’ Under the Tuscan Sun. I read her book right before moving to Italy years ago. I was there for two years, and spent my time searching for, and many times finding, the Italy of Ms. Mayes’ experience. I moved into a 3 story, 100 year old farmhouse with green shutters near a small Italian town where few spoke English. There were details like an iron ring set into the wall outside the door that my landlord said was for tying up horses. There was a large rosemary bush with thick gnarly branches that was as old as the house and an out of control, very prolific fig tree in the yard. I ripped overgrown vines out of a small garden and planted perfumed roses in various shades of peach and lots of lavender. The garden grew beneath my second story bedroom window and the scent wafted upward and into the open windows on hot afternoons. Ms. Mayes also wrote about monogrammed linens she purchased at antiques markets, wondering about the original owners, brides who grew into grandmothers, whose linens ended up at the market after their long lives were over. I too visited the antiques markets in my Friuli town and neighboring villages, looking for beautiful items, feeling a little guilty about taking pieces of Italy to my American home, out of their natural progress from one Italian family to another. At any rate, there wasn’t much I could afford in those days, and I ended up with no mysterious monograms, but a few beautiful white linen window coverings inset with hand-crocheted lace.
Now, I continue to rip the stitches out of this problematic monogram. The seamstress I hired to do the work did an exceptional job and, ironically, these letters would have lasted forever. They are proving to be hard to remove. After ripping out the satin stitching on top, I can see the letters are also basted into the fabric as a guide, so that will have to be ripped out also. The stitches have also caused indentations in the fabric after 12 years, so again like the Telltale Heart, they taunt me, and I wonder if they will ever truly be gone. Next, I’ll wash and press the table runner and hope that helps remove a little more evidence of the past. In the end, like the marriage, I suspect the monogram will leave permanent marks that I will have to learn to live with. Time will tell.