"Secret Things" in Yellow Crayon.

I have known big days. Days I fill with maps and ambitions, dreams and goals. These days, like the cedar chest in my childhood basement, are where I pack my most audacious of aspirations – the book I wrote when I was seven, the gold medal I won at the state gymnastics meet, and the poem that won the school contest. I folded each neatly and tucked them away inside that trunk and wrote “special things” on the side in yellow crayon.

When I was eight years old, someone found my special things, temporarily unpacked them and dusted the inside of the trunk. I remember pretending to be mad. But if I was honest, I was proud of the spilled contents and, in some way, glad for them to be exposed. They were everything I wanted to articulate about my young self, without the strain of vocabulary and poise that works it’s way into adulthood.

When people would ask me about the things in the box, I would smile and tell them they couldn’t see. I told them it was because the things were my special secrets. And then I would leave the lid unlocked.

I was pleased with my stash of cherished items. They were ambitious and dreamy and quite ideal.

And then there was my jewelry box. It was a cheap, petite box made of black plastic and lined with fake velvet. It probably wasn’t bigger than a bottle of perfume and didn’t cost more than $3.95. But it was sacred. While my commanding cedar chest held all my lovely dreams, this little box held everything only I could see and hold and understand. Nothing was impressive; just little bits of paper, a particular paper doll, and a ring I found one time. But, regardless of the item itself, each tiny trinket told a story of hushed desires and unforgotten dreams, whispering, Don’t forget. Don’t be deceived by those dreams in the chest. This is who you really are. This is what you really want.

I hid that box under my mattress for years, and only found it when my family moved from that little grey house on Westview Drive. I remember snatching it up hungry, reminded, and protective. Remember how in grade school teachers would always ask what one thing you would save from your house in case of a fire? I would answer something cliché, I’m sure. But in the back of my mind I would rehearse the fire drill, planning the route to and from my little black box. At the end of the day, that box held everything I needed. Everything I really was.

I don’t know what ever happened to that cedar chest in the basement. That book I wrote, the doll I sewed clothes for, and the teddy bear I had as a babe are long since gone, and I felt no pain at their going. But the little black box is a different story.

I’ve been living in some big days. I’ve made plans. I’ve spoken dreams. I’ve even sounded vulnerable. But … want to know the truth? At the end of the day, at the end of myself, are little scraps of paper. On them, are words I cannot yet speak or articulate. They are desires I cannot face and hopes I dare not anticipate. They are nightmares I cannot shake and memories I will not forget. They are wounds and scars and delights and desires – but only those from the sacred territory of my heart. They are not the shiny ones made of glitter, but the ones too dingy to be inquired upon. They may not peak much interest or spike much curiosity, even if the lid was left unlocked. But they are mine. And in some strange way, they are more me than I know how to be sometimes.

I have known some big days lately. You know, the ones like my cedar chest. They’re ambitious and exciting and shout of anticipation.

But tonight isn’t one of them.

Tonight is little. Like a jewelry box.

There’s not much noise in this room, no one laughing or crying, no one speaking or teaching or listening. There are no words passing through this space about what should or could or will be done. No, tonight is small and silent. Like looking up at a star speckled sky all alone on a clear night. With your head thrust back and the horizon no longer in view, the dark mass quickly spins farther and farther away. Leaving you smaller than you could have imagined.

Yes, tonight is like that. Tonight I have no big words, no big plans. I have no false vulnerability to offer and no impressive secrets.

Just some scraps of paper whispering

don’t forget.