Hide

We can hide from so many things. We can even hide from ourselves.

We can bury things out in the backyard, or way out in the woods, where we think they will remain forever.

Things once hidden come calling. Someday.

Truth telling is hard work, and it is slippery. Truth changes. It is hard to get hold of, and as soon as I think I have it, it shifts like the light and shadows in this room. The arc of story is not fixed. It is moving, just as the light of day will move through this space, into darkness, and back again.

I wonder what I am hiding, from others, but more from myself. I know some things, I can touch them. Others are there, things forgotten, neglected, things denied, things that hurt too much to exhume.

So they wait.