I had something in mind to write today when I happened to look at the date, May 28th, and changed my plans.  When I was younger, I was so immersed in the lives of the Brontes (and have never really become un-immersed) that I had no trouble recognizing today as the anniversary of the death of Anne Bronte.  She died May 28, 1849 and was buried in Scarborough, where she had gone, accompanied by Charlotte and Charlotte's friend, Ellen Nussey, to spend her last days in a place she loved, where she could see and hear and smell the sea. 
     The account of her death in the biographies by Juliet Barker and Winifred Gerin is so moving, I can't remember reading a greater one even in the lives of the saints.  She accepted what was happening, tried to be as little a burden as possible to her family, took all the nauseating and useless remedies without complaint, and waited for death to come to her with a steady strength of character. 
     Although I admire all the Brontes greatly, she is the one I most hope to resemble when my own time comes.  I love her poetry, like both her novels and respect her willingness to write about people's appalling behavior without sugarcoating it.  She looked at her employers and their children with clear eyes, and I was glad that the daughters of the awful Mrs. Robinson turned to her for wisdom and warmth even after she returned home. 
    I don't know if she loved her father's curate, Willie Weightman, but it wouldn't be surprising if she did, since he seemed to be thoroughly likable and genuinely, deep-down kind and self-sacrificing in the best sense.  There is no indication that he loved her, so it's possible that she also had to suffer the grief of being unloved by a man she cared for very much.  She also lived to suffer the agonizing loss of Emily, as well as her brother and her aunt.
     Thirty years ago, I wrote poems for all the Brontes, including the parents, so I will close today's post with 29-year-old Anne's:
        
    Anne Bronte Discloses the Secret of Her Peace

             Whatever connects
             God's world to this
             runs through me.

             Even exhausted
             by four great griefs
             I feel it --

             a Something
             stretched under
             flesh and air.

             My hands let go.
             My feet balance themselves
             on prayer.

             Hour by hour
             this soft sweet May,
             I slip through
             the open doorway.