The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion #1

by Beth Brower

It was very Dutch Painter of him. I almost suggested we hold a séance and call up Vermeer.

But my true love is the evening walk, that last hour of daylight that has its way with sunlight, shadow, and soul. That was the case this evening. The lamps were lit, light coming from the houses, and there walked I, alone, and not upset to be so.

This refusal to blame myself does not mean I don’t feel absolutely ill when I think of my father’s books and to know I could have had both, a solid foundation of knowledge and an entire bookshelf filled with my father’s observations. Why does life give such a decision to a girl of only thirteen?

“Flowers inside the brown coat of a poor girl is immoral,” said she. “Oh, Cousin Matilde! Did you say this brown coat makes me look immortal? Why, what a fine compliment. I shall leave you now and write it in my journal.” “What? What? I said immoral, not immortal, you daft child!” said she. “What? What?” croaked I in return.

While escorting me from the room, he swatted me on the posterior as if I were a child. I lie not. Quoth Milton, we were “in dubious battle on the plains of Heaven.” All in all, we have had teas which have ended worse.

Archibald and I have exchanged notes through Parian and Agnes. We have negotiated a time and a place for the reckoning. At one point throughout the exchanges of the day, Agnes asked if she was to be my second.