we talked about secrets once

we finally had someone else to share our secrets with.

you hauled out a battered tin box, wallet thin, from a chest pocket. how’d i missed its bulge, i don’t know. but i’d felt its hardness before, when you’d let me embrace you, and wondered what was covering your heart.

dented, slightly rusted. it was the kind that you only find now in antique stores pre-facebook, pre-twitter, pre-the days when secrets were so yesterday. you set out the contents before me.

i loved you for opening up the box. i loved you for not being able to look me in the eyes as you explained one thing after another. i promised i wouldn’t share what they were. i won’t now.

you wanted to know what my secrets were.

i opened my purse, and took out a small plastic bag, the type you keep ID photos in. as i placed it on the table, the shards of mirror inside the bag caught some of my reflection. that was my secret, me.

then the shards caught your face as you moved over to see it.

i see it now as a sign.


~ by translating for peas on September 2, 2011.

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