“Thank you,” I said, accepting the materials. Maybe letter-writing would be my new favorite thing.
Chapter Seven
I went to bed reflecting on my first full day back in Amherst. I’d succeeded at six of my seven list items. I’d read about Emily, explored the grounds, tried poetry, visited Village Books, and avoided mentioning the burned stationery and asking about Davis’s relationship status. I hadn’t been able to start my garden as planned, but all the plants I’d purchased received a healthy drink, thanks to the rain. As a bonus, my day had been introspective. I’d discovered, for example, that Amherst was a far more vibrant place than I’d thought. In the past I was too distracted by other things, like getting to class on time or watching Annie cheer, to notice much. I’d seen everything through a pinpoint lens. But today I’d learned a little about gardening from Olivia and made a new friend. I’d also realized I was more of a people person than I’d previously imagined, definitely more so than Emily Dickinson, which could poke a hole in my plan to become a recluse. But Grace’s letter-writing classes would provide social interaction. Hopefully time and practice would improve my poetry, because I’d also learned I was not a natural poet.
Every attempt I’d made at penning something profound and beautiful, or even rudimentarily observant, had failed. In the end I’d resorted to dirty limericks and the most basic haiku to get something on paper so I could check writing poetry off my list. Emulating Emily Dickinson was proving harder than anticipated in every possible way. But I had to start somewhere, and I was nothing if not tenacious.
Tomorrow I’d work on the tougher items, like number seven,Embrace the solitude, number nine,Be happy, and ten,Give up on love.
I woke early the next morning, teeth chattering and every muscle in my body clenched against the cold. The old stone home seemed to insulate against the warm afternoon sunlight and leak any heat provided by the furnace. I took the blankets with me when I rose and went hunting for the thermostat. I found it set to fifty-eight degrees.
“For the love of—” I cranked the wheel on the ancient device, only stopping when the little arrow pointed to seventy.
A primal, exhausted moan rumbled through the old house. Vents rattled inside the walls. Slowly delivering and circulating the distinctly dry scent of an aging system.
I scrunched my nose and glanced around. “Just keep it warm for forty more days, and we’ll get along fine.”
I made some coffee and contemplated how to spend my day. Thankfully the rain had stopped, and Grace’s first letter-writing class was this morning. I just had to pass a few hours before going to the bookstore. After that, I’d tackle the garden, or visit Emily Dickinson’s house. I couldn’t wait to walk the halls where she’d lived. The thought sent goose bumps down my arms.
First I’d journal about my feelings, dump the chaos from my brain onto the page. Had leaving Willow Bend been the right thing to do? Was it selfish? Would I adjust to the silence in the manor, or would I start talking to a volleyball before my time was up here?
I selected a piece of thick paper from the materials Grace had given me, then loaded an ink cartridge into the pen she’d provided and immediately discovered I had no idea how to make it write. And I couldn’t google it. No internet. I sighed to recenter myself, enjoyed a little more coffee, and tried again.
Finding the correct angle for the metal tip against the page was an ordeal, but eventually a thick line of ink appeared as I pulled the instrument down. A win! When I swept upward, however, attempting to form the rest of the single letter I’d started—no ink. I shook the pen and tried again. No ink. I pushed harder and scratched the paper.
“Nope.” I rose from my chair. “Not today, Satan,” I said, walking away, chin held high. I would not begin my day being defeated by a pen.
I dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a light sweater, then parted my hair down the center and twisted my curls into braids. By the time I’d applied a little mascara and lip gloss, I was sure it had to be time for class. But only about forty-five minutes had passed.
I returned to the desk in the study and willed myself to feel peaceful and happy.
In reality, I felt frustrated and bored. My thoughts moved quickly, unintentionally, to my family. Everything was changing at home. Everyone was moving into their next stage of life and happiness, while I remained stuck at the same place I’d dwelled for nearly a decade. I’d been living in a personalized episode ofGroundhog Daysince college graduation. And every year, my world became smaller, more hyperfocused on the store. My friends had fallen away over time, pairing off and getting married, like Annie. Starting families. Relocating for jobs. My entire reality centered on a single building where I worked and lived. Where I’d spent the better part of my entire life. I’d lost more than one perfectly good boyfriend over the years by prioritizing the store or my family over him. Amir Devi came instantly to mind. If I could’ve built a life with any of my exes, it was Amir. He had been open and ready for a partnership. I’d been distrusting after a particularly bad breakup several months before. When he’d invited me on a trip over the holidays, I’d declined, because I had to work. Christmas was Rini Reads’ busiest season, and I didn’t want to let my family down. When he’d encouraged me to push back after a fight with Annie, I’d turned on him and taken her side. When he’d begged me to choose him, or to at least choosemyself once in a while, and see where the relationship between us might go, I’d thought him overbearing, then cried as he walked away.
The possibility that my very full and busy life was actually as lonely as Emily’s reclusive one shook me. I searched my mental archives of her work to find a soothing verse or line, then opened my notebook.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
When I thought of spending six weeks alone in the manor, isolated and freezing, only to return home unchanged and still searching for love, I wanted to scream.
I had to succeed.
I faced off with the blue lines on the page, with a normal, modern pen in hand, determined to win this battle. My muscles tensed and brow crunched, but no words appeared.
I rolled my shoulders, then shook my hands out hard at the wrists. Maybe I was making this too difficult. Overthinking. I’d start with another haiku. It’d been my default style in writing courses when poetry was assigned. Three lines. Five syllables, then seven, then five. I had to start somewhere, then hope to grow.
I am no poet,I began. Then counted syllables: one, two, three, four, five.Though I hope to be,I wrote, then counted. One, two, three, four, five. Not enough. I ran a line through the words and started again.I long to be like Emily,I tried. Eight syllables: too long. I tapped my pen against the page and checked the wall clock, which I suspected was broken. An eternity later, I finished my poem, exhausted.
I am no poet
Hopefully I’ll someday find
My talents elsewhere
I dropped my head onto the desk.
Maybe morning exercise was the answer. I stood and stretched, practiced mindful breathing and a few yoga poses, then went outside to get some sun. All healthy, solitary activities. None took more than a few minutes.
