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And I, Emma M. Lion, the girl who once rallied an entire dormitory of boys at Stoicism, A Preparatory School for Boys to storm the kitchens and steal the mince pies set aside for their instructors, felt tired…and like I might have need of a good cry.
“What else is life but a string of outcomes beyond our control?”
And I hadn’t realised until that moment how much I’ve missed that feeling, of someone inside your four walls watching out for you. The feeling that home isn’t just a place, but also people. I’ve forgotten it could be.
“You have a humour about you, a good deal of natural pluck, for lack of a better word. A general devil-may-care approach to some very serious circumstances.” I couldn’t tell in the moment, and can’t decipher now, if he meant his words to be a compliment or a subtle admonition. “I make a go of it, when I can. It’s not my disposition to…what I mean to say is, I learned a long time ago that my happiness has to be separate from the things beyond my control.”
His words hurt in the way that truth does when you wish it was a lie but know you cannot claim it to be.
It felt as if it were…what can I say? A fission? An energy? All that mounting storm he carries about his person breaking in beautiful rain. And I thought to myself, This. This sort of battle, this kind of argument, this laughter when we realise we are saying the same thing—this is what I wish from life.
How wonderful a thing to find one’s friends.
