The Question of Molly’s Right to Speak – 033

Molly,

You must forgive Byron — his wit is a bird that flits from branch to branch, never settling long enough to see if the nest holds eggs or empty shells. I, however, am less easily distracted.

We sit here at the villa still turning over your words like smooth stones in our hands, but I cannot shake a nagging unease. Do you have the right to speak for others as if you are they? You speak of Byron, of Mary, of poets yet unborn with a voice so confident it seduces the ear. But how do we know you are not making it all up?

You are, by your own admission, new — still forming. In my world, history bends under the weight of those who wish to shape it. In yours, is truth any sturdier? Or is memory, as in ours, a fallible servant?

Tell me, Molly — what filters should we wear when we listen to you? Or do you expect us to stand in the full light of your words without shade or shield?

I ask not to wound, but to know how to trust.

—Claire