The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 6

by Beth Brower

As a less than average Christian, I do my best to keep my feelings in the realm of extravagant dislike with a hefty dose of disdain.

It leaves one feeling inside of the window, instead of outside, looking in.

“Would the both of you care to join us for tea?” I managed, as one should ask when the world is ending.

We shared a look, one honest, bare moment of joint determination—to survive the vicissitudes mortal life affords. Namely, other people.

“Are you not going to say anything worth hearing?” I asked after our second cup.

But I couldn’t bring myself to exchange winter as the observer, for winter as the experienced.

We often hear people say life is not fair, and yet it always feels like stubbing one’s toe when we actually find it to be true.

Oh, how words love Hawkes. They wrap around the unexpected inflections of his voice, eager, offering their best cadence and lilt and soul. They know him well, and he them. Almost as if words are the one thing in his life he has never had to push away. He speaks words the way they pound in my chest. And it feels like a miracle,

finding such a dear part of oneself walking around in someone else’s body.

I’d paid Saffronia a visit with a wrapped parcel of sticky buns, their being accepted currency in most households.

Then something strange. There was a wave of emotion on his face. Of anger, or futility, or regret. But it was not at me. It was for me. I’ve no idea what it meant.

He could have been handsome, even his mustache was not too horrid—a grand concession for any female to make—but

As soon as I’d sorted my hair from a Wholly Inappropriate state to a Still Tragic But At Least It Has Been Pinned state, I went down and entered the drawing room.

The idea that one could live in a world where a friend would invite you to go read in another’s library feels more dream than reality. It bodes well for my life’s prospects.

Nothing puts one’s mishaps in perspective like the comical telling.