Muling over Secrets

It is quiet for now. The classes upstairs have not yet been dismissed from their morning lectures and early arrived athletes scurry in for a quick meal before the rush.

The mediocre cup of coffee tastes burnt with neglect. There is no warmth from the condensed and formed paper that can take the chill out of this room. Perhaps it is the four set of doors in the small space, opening and closing every five minutes that makes her shiver. But, deeper she fears it is more than a wind chill.

She sits alone.

Images of tiny feet flash through her mind. Clenching her stomach, unsettling nerves bring back the nauseous feelings. He would not understand if he knew the pain. Brushing it aside and blaming it on stress and over thinking the final year of college.

Someone yells.

A stampede of footsteps echo throughout the cramped cafe. Her mind struggles, jumping from loud, overbearing conversations centered around nonsense, and the small worry eating away at her soul.

Why is it the older some people get, the more they resort to immaturity and dramatic affairs of youth?

Deep breathes, don't stop.

A psychology book to ease away from the focused thought of "her problem." But, what if? Would he leave her without even looking back? Then again, secrets always saved the relationships of her past.

But to lie?

The clinic should be open this afternoon. A crashing tray of eggs snaps her back. He'll never have to know. "I am the only one who can take care of me," she whispers. Throwing the book and other belongings into her bag she rushes to class.

The cafe is teaming with hungry college students. The door fly's open and she is gone.

reversing time

The walkway was long and overgrown with the ferns and new sprouts of the past summer. Chestnuts were starting to pop up on the cluster of trees by the broken fence which divides the corn field from papas yard. Papa would give us 10 cents a nut if we could pick them up, in the end he always paid more than he should. I can remember the smell of burning wood in the evening as my father disposed of the recent trimmings from the oaks. The sky would fade from its vibrant day blue into hues of purple and gold. An autumn wind blew a slight chill through the air as I walked up the steep steps of the backdoor, and rushing into the kitchen, felt my skin prickle with the combination of night air and heat from the oven. The smells were always enticing; of pies, polish dishes, and anything nana could get her hands onto. And there she was, stirring the potatoes as they boiled for supper, gliding between the oven and table where she whistled and prepared the evenings meal. The house always smelt faintly of pie, I never could put my finger on it. Everyone would always cheerfully congregate around the table to tell stories and feast, there never seemed to be a care in the world.

What happened in the elven years between blissfulness and chaotic depression? How did the world start to feel as if were slipping through clenched fists and the social norm became the depravity of existence? Independence replaced imagination and life began to attack an unarmed child who lacked the basic training of worldly politics. To once again run without worrying if it is the right way, or care not of the thoughts and feelings of others. That would be life. Instead, it feels as if each day takes a bit of the child who once ruled the kingdom of my mind and replaces it with a bitter king, too old and tired to rekindle the past. Breathing without feeling like an anvil is on my chest. The adventurer in me wants to say the answer is just around the bend, to hold it out for a few more moments and there, the promise land will be nestled in the future.

Just around the bend. To be young again. To close my eyes and just be.

I was walking back from the meadow at the bottom of the grassy lane. Back to the pink and white house on township line. Leaves in my hair and a slingshot in hand. It is about supper time. I open the back door and I'm home.