I was the good child. In the triangle of my family. I watched and waited, but my defiance couldn’t be contained. I slipped it in between the covers of a novel. Gently, softly, then with a kick.
I hadn’t known till then I’d spent my life avoiding anger. Had listened, mute, biting my lip.
Now I was speaking.
My fingers, running.
Stories tumbling out.
The upset hit me like a torrent.
How do people walk, put one foot before the other?
I lay in bed, struck down.
I was the cause of this. My life’s work, undone.
Even so, I didn’t stop. The wall was down, and I was climbing through it.
All I could do was type.
Secrets aren’t for keeping. Don’t tell. Don’t say. Keep it to yourself.
I lost a decade as I held my breath.
And all the while a bare root rose was growing,
Thorny, budding, too powerful for pruning, however hard it was cut back.
