Dear Emmie Blue

by Lia Louis

Because I know, deep down, I am made of strong stuff. Rebuilt with it, at least, the way we all are, over the years, with age and experience, skin thickening, heart softening, patched up double in the places prone to breakage. A sum of all the things that have hurt us, scared us, sheltered and delighted us.

Maybe home isn’t a place. It’s a feeling. Of being looked after and understood. Of being loved.

“That is called a conversation, is it not, Emmie? How relationships are made, slowly sharing pieces of yourself, in turn?”

I think of Marv. My dad. And I realize I don’t feel lonely. In this moment, the empty loneliness that has always followed me around like a chasm, ready to eat me whole, is simply not there. I feel loved.

someone shouldn’t be defined by one mistake for the rest of their lives.

“Eliot is here, isn’t he, Emmie?” she says, holding my hand. “He’s always here. That can’t be said about the other one. Let it be. Let him love you.”