I Hold The Keys, Not You

Iwander around the yard, watching my dog sniff seven bushes before deciding where to pee. I am numb, zoned out, a cardigan wrapped around me on a muggy 89-degree evening.

My husband watches from a distance. He doesn’t speak, except one, “You okay?” He now knows me well enough to know not to push, not to smother, and to watch from afar.

Writing about my past is hard. Exposing raw nerves. Sharing painful truths. Reliving scary things.

Dancing around making my story being someone else’s indictment.

Idon’t name names. But I share my lived truth, and it wouldn’t be hard to track down who I’m talking about. Most of the ‘characters’ are still alive.

I still shake off tendrils of guilt as they come creeping up the back of my neck as I write, as I edit, as I ever so cautiously parse out what I’m going to say and how I shall say it, what word I will use and which I won’t and which I will only reserve for later.

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