The Witch Of November

Stormy weather of the heart. Admittedly, maybe not as fierce as the winds that blow across the Great Lakes, but fierce enough, making me wistful for the stillness of heartaches past.

 

I'm only fooling myself, of course. It only seems still because it's long ago. Safe. That sharp blade of longing now dull. 

Still, I remember. There are certain nights when the intensity of hidden emotion etches a map onto your bones. I slide into the groove of discomforting comfort. It's all that I have left of those old feelings now. Parking lots. Stairwells. Memories of a scent caught unexpectedly around a corner.

Soon, my bones will carry a new map. Even as I lurch toward old age, the graver of desire is still fiercely sharp.  Maps of dreams and unforgotten hopes, maps of places you will never know.

Secrets

Last summer, I mentioned here my long recurring dream of mailing tiny letters to tiny mailboxes in hidden locations around town. I've never known what it meant, but as it happened, I was buying Valentine cards for my son's class when I came upon just such a mailbox, and what's more, these tiny envelopes with slips of paper inside them. They are very tiny indeed (see dime for scale) much like the ones I'd dreamed of.

Did I immediately hatch a plan to write secret messages inside and sneakily conceal them around town? Of course I did. Am I going to tell you what they were? No way.

Some secrets can only be revealed by the whims of serendipity.

Not Afraid Of You

I always did love those hidden picture puzzles a child.