Right now I am holding so much. It is as if all of my stories to be written are secrets and I am so good at keeping secrets. I never tell. A sign of loyalty, "She can really keep her mouth shut," as though that is a good quality. See, but don't tell. Hear, but don't put words on paper. You might lose your life.
I need to tell these secrets. They are not hallowed. They are not deep, dark ones, but they are all held in that same place, in that same way. As though they need a closet. Safe keeping. Wrapped and double-wrapped. Sealed from air and light. These stories are not all mine, but my perspective, is impressed upon each one. Like a Z cut from the sword of Zorro to mark space time and location. A map of my journey.
I need to undress them, remove the cloak of shame, open the shawl of fear, spool the veil of guilt draped head to toe. Shine light on them and watch as the gusts of wind created by my voice and pen to paper whip them away, up into the sky and out of sight, creating space for secrets to transform into stories for more than one heart to hold.