Rose Emely, 1st Person Account Short Story

¶ … rose emely, 1st person account short story miss emely's point view, text reference quoting parenthetical citations.

"A Rose for Emily:" A first-person account of Emily's point-of-view

I remember what my father the Colonel used to say: never forget that you are a Grierson and you are my daughter. Other people wanted me to forget. The new people of my town, with their new money, with their shiny suits and Northern ways. But I never forgot.

They wanted me to pay taxes. Did they not know that I never had any taxes, nor did my father? How dare they! I remember my father laughing and tearing up the tax notices when they came to our house. It was not done, simply not done. The fact that I had to actually come myself to inform them of this truth was a sad sign of the times.

My father loved me, even though it may not have looked like love to the outside. It was lonely, I admit. Sometimes I would ride beside him in the carriage and long to be one of the young girls of the town, in white dresses, playing with hoops or going riding on their ponies with the boys. But the Colonel said he was protecting me, and saving me for a man who loved me. At home, I learned sewing and painting from a French governess until the age of about twelve, after which my education ended. The Colonel said it was best that women not be too educated, it made them seem too much like Yankee suffragettes.

Because I did not go to barbeques and balls like the other girls, the men were slow to come and ask for my hand. Some did, of course, but the Colonel regarded their advances as effrontery: not good enough for me, he said, not good enough for my Emily. He would chase them away from the porch with a horsewhip.

I believe that the only people who truly love you are your parents. After the Colonel was gone there was a great, gaping hole in my life. My entire existence had been structured by his habits and his moods, from what I ate, to when I left the house. Now I was free, without him, but I felt less free than ever before. His presence hung about the house, palpably, like a ghost. His image in my mind grew sharper after death, as did the strength of his will upon my will. I felt both more alone than ever before, and also more haunted by others.

Was Homer my only folly, perhaps? You must understand that Homer did intend to marry me. Otherwise, he never would have carried on as he did. The people of the town did not understand his Yankee ways, that is why they said that he was going to leave me a ruined woman. But it was really their carping and nastiness that made him pull away from me, I am sure of it.

I have heard of women who died for love, either by their own hand or because they wasted away. I am not one of those women. I am my father's daughter, a Grierson of unbending well even if I am a woman. No one may get the better of me.