Birds
— fragment, Margaret Gainsborough’s diary, 1795
After Father’s death, heat overtakes us, the skies sulk. London’s graveyards are full, we pass two coffins in the street. The river smells of stale gin. We hear of guillotines in Paris—blood’s everywhere, even on ladies’ silk gloves. We will not speak of these things. My older sister says to me, “The birds on our shoes were the rage in Paris. No one sews like that anymore.” I agree that our shoes are exquisite. Last year, we talked about repairing the soles, but we cannot be profligate. Children stare at our shoes, perhaps they plan to steal them. “Are women in Paris allowed to walk alone? Or is everywhere like here?” my sister asks in a small voice that keeps growing smaller. We lock fingers, our gloves are bloodless. Feathers float in the river. We will not speak of these things.