Susan Walker Morse
after the painting, “Portrait of Susan Walker Morse,” ca 1820
Part 1
Susan Walker Morse. Charlestown, Massachusetts. One year old. Little lady. Brick red gown, slightly draped sleeves. A green bow is loosely tied at your breast. Puffed sleeves on your shoulders. Does the elastic hurt your baby arms? If I were to remove those sleeves, would I notice the trace of an indentation on your soft, plump arms? Your lips are slightly parted. Ruby red. Lipstick. Who has painted your infant’s lips? Are your cheeks also rouged? Has another hand applied these adult touches to your young frame? You are a child. Yet you appear as an adult. Will you grow up too soon? How early will you know the struggles and harships of life? A moment in time. Your portrait is a snapshot of a childhood that will end all too soon. A plump hand gently caresses your breast. You point an index finger at yourself as if to say, “Me, you wish to capture my life?” This brief moment. Gilded in a gold frame, forever immortalized.
