The Dictionary of Lost Words

by Pip Williams

When I asked him what fashionable meant, he said it was something that mattered a lot to some and not at all to others, and it could be applied to everything from hats to wallpaper to the time you arrived at a party.

Our thinking was limited by convention (the most subtle but

oppressive dictator). Please forgive our lack of imagination.

By interesting, I mean unconventional, which is generally a good thing, though not always. I trust you can judge the difference.

A vulgar word, well placed and said with just enough vigour,

can express far more than its polite equivalent.

If you’ve got choices, Esme, choose well.”

She cared more for what mattered and less for what didn’t.

It judged me, that crucifix, and I hated it. I imagined it twisting my words and whispering its translation in her ear. We were in some kind of tug of war, with Lizzie in the middle. It was not a contest I wanted to lose.

“Fear ’ates the ordinary,” she said. “When yer feared, you need to think ordinary thoughts, do ordinary things. You ’ear me? The fear’ll back off, for a time at least.”

“Praise dulls the intellect, in his opinion.”

“Some words are more than letters on a page, don’t you think?” she said, tying the sash around my belly as best she could. “They have shape and texture. They are like bullets, full of energy, and when you give one breath you can feel its sharp edge against your lip. It can be quite cathartic in the right context.”

Time became an elastic thing, and the boundary between dreams and waking was blurred.

As our final day ended, the sky blushed pink—a parting gift, I thought.

“It’s not about forgiveness, Essymay. We can’t always make the choices we’d like, but we can try to make the best of what we must settle for. Take care not to dwell.”

I took up his hand and stroked the freckled skin on the back. It was dry, but the palm of his hand and the pads of his fingers

were as smooth as silk. They always had been, and I’d always found it curious.

“I reckon it derives from grief,” said Mabel. “From what we’ve lost and what we’ve never ’ad and never will. As I said, a woman’s lot. It should be in your dictionary. It’s too common not to be understood.”

I wanted it to stop, but I had no more control of my thoughts

than of the weather.

My father still echoes in my mind whenever I need good counsel; I suspect yours will do the same in time.

“How proud and happy your father would have been,” he said, and I held his gaze, knowing the memory of Da was stronger when it was shared.