How beautiful to be able to write "in Amherst," for yes, I have been! I stood in the town and remarked about the fact with the same disbelief and fulfillment I had when I said, "I am in Spain."
My intrepid adventuresome sister and I set off in the remnants of "Tropical Depression 17" to make this trek ~ we were not to be deterred. We passed through stunningly dilapidated New England towns ~ former mill towns with sprawling factories left abandoned to broken glass ~ but we found Amherst bustling with the several colleges active there.
We'd not eaten, nor taken a restroom stop for awhile, and we really just stopped at the house to check in and see about touring "in time." I blew through the door with the rain, however, and when the desk attendant said, "Would you like a tour? We have one starting in about a minute" I said, "Yes!"
And so my sister walked through the door and we were swept into the hallway of the Belle of Amherst. The house is expansive and light. I wasn't sure what to expect from the vibe of the place ~ but I found it provocatively happy. I could feel immediately why she was content to become a recluse within its walls.
I had seen the movie "A Quiet Passion," which I am glad I saw, but which I will likely never watch again. Tonight I began "Dickinson," a new Apple TV+ rendition of the poet's life. It was what I expected, but I will likely binge watch it, as I think it gets closer to some inherent truth despite it's artistic licence. My entire image of Emily has changed since learning her hair was red (though it's dark in the show). I feel like I understand her better, sitting at her small writing table in her corner room.
In Lavinia's room the museum has a classroom of sorts set up, where we studied Emily's unique style of verse. "Would anyone like to read this poem aloud?" our guide asked. Would I? To read "I dwell in possibility, A fairer house than prose" in her home, where the words were penned....the very air seemed to breathe!
We also trekked across Emily's path to the Evergreens to call on Austin and Sue. To my delight and horror, this house has not been restored! It is very much like it "was" and yet not, and yet so! I could fairly hear the literary soirees taking place in the parlor ~ and the artwork collected by Austin hangs in the dim solitude of falling rain.
I left one of my calling cards in the bin by the heavy Victorian staircase. It was pleasing and pretty there.
The gift shop had very few items for sale ~ I admit disappointment and surprise, but I bought a volume of poems and a card with the print of the wallpaper in Emily's room. It was thrilling to know they had found and replicated the original. Roses.
And so, my copy of Emily's poems remains the one that was originally dad's. It's weather worn with a 60/70's cover and lose pages, but perhaps that is the perfection of it after all. I can see how she influenced his own writing, in those days of education with Bruffy Conner. I would like for dad to know I was there ~ for him to have gone, even. But perhaps we take our spirits with us. Or, perhaps they are communing in the afterlife as I write.
After all, we dwell in possibility, don't we?
