the keeping is not forever

Secrets are phantoms. They are terrors, even.

I have thought a lot about what to write here for a long time. About secrets. I am almost afraid to start. There are the things people tell us, the secrets shared with us, about other people. When we are trusted to be the keeper of a third party story--the person who would rather we didn't know, but we end up knowing all the same. It is just often too compelling to keep it a true secret. Secrets become trivialized the further they spread outside the center. Actions with context and explanation become reduced, like the farthest ripples of the biggest stone when it lands. And then you can't separate it from the rest of the water.

There are our own secrets. Stories about our families or our friends and experiences we have had together. Silent moments, deep hurt. Those are the things worth keeping quiet about, right? Because it takes so much to explain why these are not bad things. There are choices we make, all of us, that we don't want to talk about. So we think about them or not, depending on our style. Songs remind us of secrets. Skies remind us. And smells and words. And we hope everything passes outside of memory someday, and that we forget. But that's not the way of ghosts, really. Secrets are the most profound hauntings.

When I was in the fifth grade, my family experienced something very difficult we all had to keep secret. It was a big deal, and has certainly informed "me." I will tell you if you ask me, if you really need to know. But it's not my secret alone. So I can't give it away that easily. Many of you know it already anyway.

For all kinds of reasons that made sense for all types of realities, we all had occasion to tell lies to keep the secret. Its integrity. That was much harder than having the secret in the first place. Maintaining the fortification so it could not escape. That was the challenge. Given the scope and reach of the event, it affected so much of my daily existence that little sub-lies had to emerge. Snowballing into something greater and grander than what would have happened, possibly, if there had been nothing to keep quiet about. The burden grew like weeds. I can tell you that I have things I cannot pull out of my garden each year because their roots are too deep. And they remind me of this.

There was a day that may be remembered be one of you, too. Sitting down by the creek. The same creek where two years later I would have my first kiss. And I was wearing a shirt of my mother's, like kids do because they think some of their parents clothes are cool (before they realize this is wrong, wrong, wrong). Green and black big, art deco dice print, I think. And bad jeans with tennies. I was with a friend, and I started crying. Out of nowhere. The pressure of keeping this quiet, while dealing with all of its impacts was just too much for the little me. And the greatness of it was probably more than should have been shared with a fellow fifth grader. But I told her anyway. Just to have someone else hear it. Like I was shifting the burden. Roll it up the hill with me, will you?

This person I told, this child who is now a woman, was very kind. And I remember never speaking of it with her again. But I knew that she knew, and it was just fine. She may have told someone else. And that's just fine, too.

I told other people after that, with a measured choice that surprises me. But I was always expecting the world to fall down around me, you see. It felt like betrayal to not have a secret anymore.

But it wasn't.

Because it happened to me, too.

At the end here, I often don't know where to go. I am left creating an epilogue, translating these memories into a way I will behave going forward because I want so much for my daughter, the only child I have, the only child I ever want to understand a way to be in the world that is strong and honest. A way to be that is without secrets that weigh you down.

My darling, if you keep writings of your own--any reflections or sussing out of the world--someday your children will read it. As you will read mine. Near the lamp from my teenage room and the books you avoid as you reach for my glasses.

Every way you act in the world in some way belongs to the world.

You can have thoughts. You can have private thoughts that no one knows.

Actions are owned by the many. The everything. You can make mistakes. You can do what you want at the time, and you should. There is, in many cases, no other way to learn. Be stronger than the secrets you make for yourself. Outlast them with the choices you have yet to print upon who you will be. Never be afraid of your worst day; the day you answer for it...that is when the freedom comes.