Julia rarely knows when to keep her silence. Today was the typical day.
"Your attempts at poetry - I read your poems. The ones in your last blogs." Her voice permeated what I wanted to be my silence. "Your attempts at poetry are pathetic. How trite and unoriginal can one get?"
Had I been in full control of my emotions I might have dismissed her crass remarks. But I was not in control of my emotions. The bulk of the day I had spent with boxes and trash bags. The sorting of what to toss, what to donate, what to keep was a major issue. Culling one's own possessions is one thing-- not easy to be sure--, but removing the possessions of a newly dead mate is quite another matter.
How dare Julia call my attempts at poetry trite and unoriginal? How dare she?
"Tell me, your Highness-- if one in exile deserves that title-- can you do better? Did you do better? How long were you exiled before you begin to write poetry? And what did you write? May I quote. It is a matter of record you know in the story of your life, THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER. Your poem I believe--
My fair face is lined with age
My black hair bespeckled white
But I am here
What can I do?
My life cannot be redone
nor can it waste away.
"And what is wrong with that?"
"Absolutely nothing. It's classic. Absolutely classic. May I quote?
All my flesh is wrinkled with age
My black hair has faded to white
My legs can no longer carry me,
once nimble like a fawn's
But what can I do?
It cannot be undone.
Sappho's I believe. Tell me, Julia, just how original was your lyrics?
Uncharacteristically Julia was at a loss for words. I felt none of the pleasure I expected.
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