I used to write inside the dresser drawers. First on the white paper liner, later lifting the protection and coloring beneath. Dark smooth wood. I’d scribble green and red and blue and then close it away. A hidden rendevous with beauty. A hidden wrong.
The mind is a drawer of remembracnce…
…hidden stories that rub off on clean clothes, that seep subtly into everything—a cuff stained with a fleck of red, a blue tinge on your favorite shorts.
Occasionally, in just the right weather, the dresser shakes and the drawer rumbles open, the story flies out in a kite full of gestures, paper and colors against wood and wind, soiled sox tailing the tempest, truth diving and circling the syllables.
Listen. There’s more.
Now it’s your turn. Confession is a story with a line of sorrow, the updraft of forgivenss.
It takes two. An indelible connection. No matter how dark, how closed.