The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8

by Beth Brower

“Has Mr. Pierce been in for his breakfast?” I asked. “I was hoping we might—” Parian choked then, resulting in the need to hit his own chest with a closed fist. I feel for the man. I do. Only, one would think he had discovered Pierce and I engaged in something far more nefarious than he, in fact, did. Like operating a smugglers ring. Or stealing our neighbours’ pets on the regular. All this to say, there are worse things than a kiss. Certainly.

😂😂😂

Two paths leading to a love. Both true. A different shape of happiness to be found with each. Which path you take? Depends on many things. What you choose. What they choose. A thousand other decisions, or possibly very few. One you would love deeply. One you would love completely. One sharp as a knife. One a game of mirrors.One more difficult. One less free. Both inheritors to the line that refused to die when your first heart was buried.

Question: Ought I read the papers more than I do? Answer: Likely. However: Books.

When the ordeal was over, I avoided my aunt and her co-conspirators and made my way directly to the powder room. (Which I wished was a gun-and-powder room, where I might arm myself.)

That we should all have a gun and powder room with which to arm ourselves.

I thought of those words later, as I stood atop the south tower before supper. Deep solitude. Independence of soul. Beauty. Serendipity. And cake, I should add. The cake has been very good.

“Such a scheme has never once crossed my mind, and I find myself at the height of disappointment in my own imagination. Troubling, as I’ve always considered it so very robust.”

At times I feel my body has betrayed the girl I was, growing past the lithe limbs hewn in independence. We are to be fit for the purposes of adulthood, I know this. Childhood anticipations are traded with the shouldering of heavier things. But these days, these stones-tossed-in-tall-grass days, have stretched my muscles, recalled past forms, and I am remembering how it is to feel, to follow the instincts of something young yet ancient. To step outside the province of maturity and marvel.

One should go away long enough to know the cotton-soft contentment of coming home.