the secrets we keep

We’re in the minivan. In the seat next to me, my 10 year old scrolls through the photo album on my phone, undoubtedly looking for any visual testament of his soccer prowess. Instead, his thumb pauses on a picture of illuminated tree branches in the darkness. It is, admittedly, a haunted scene.

“Why is this dark?” he demands to know, uncomfortable at its broody presence among the cheerful snapshots of him and his siblings at play.

I shrug. “Because I went into the woods the other night by myself after y’all had gone to bed.”

Eyes bulging, his throat squeaks. “What? No! Why??”

“Because it feels good,” I wink. “Just the right amount of spooky to feel good.”

He looks at the picture, then at me, then back at the picture, as though realizing for the first time there might be a part of my life he is not privy to — that there might be some things I keep only for myself. As though realizing that he knows his mother, yes; but not entirely. And that maybe he never would.

Can this, too, be sacred: the line I’ve drawn between us?

Can these, too, be holy: the secrets that I keep?

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After I wrote that micro essay this week, I realized it reminded me of a poem I put on Instagram last year. Please enjoy ‘The Magician’ in this weird tiny left-to-right format courtesy of Substack’s gallery arrangement & my unwillingness to figure out a better way.

I dunno guys, zoom in I guess.

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It also happened to remind me of one of the best tweets of all time. Thank you for your service Dana, whoever you are. Posthumous mystique is an inalienable human right.

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A Blessing

May your truest self belong to you, not to the negotiation of belonging.

May you share it if and when you please, but never for the sake of pleasing.

May your heart show you which secrets are yours to keep.

And may the secrets you keep also keep you.

Love,

Shannon