Catherine, Called Birdy

by Karen Cushman

I think some stories are true and some stories are just stories.

Is the Devil then, being in charge of the weather, more powerful than God?

I always have strong feelings and they are quite painful until I let them out,

I think love is like mildew, growing gray and musty on things, spoiling them, and smelling bad.

A freeze. My ink froze and I had to thaw it over the fire so I could write. But now I have nothing to say.

No one noticed me, so I sat wrapped in my cloak with lambs asleep in my lap and made a lambing song, which I misremember now, but I know it was good.

I have been gathering violets to make oil of violets against attacks of melancholy. Since I turned thirteen last year I have used a great amount of oil of violets.

“The beauty of men and women is but the devils work,” she said, pinching her mouth like a fish. “A snare and a delusion. A trap for the innocent.” Innocent? Me? I was insulted by the thought.

How can we think ourselves made in the likeness of God when we act worse than beasts?

Thinking on it, I feel much like this bear. We can neither of us live alone and free and survive in this world, but we might wish for a cage less painful and confining.

I have the opinion that longing to be blue-eyed and golden-haired like the maidens in songs profits me nothing. Easier, I think, to change the songs than my face.

I cannot be like Aunt Ethelfritha, who, in being anyone she chooses, forgets who she really is.

And it came into my head that I cannot run away. I am who I am wherever I am.