A tiny poem by Robert Frost to inspire us this week from Write On Edge:
The Secret Sits
We dance round in a ring and suppose, But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.
Something that is kept or meant to be kept unknown or unseen by others.
I have secrets because I’m not an open book. Some things I just won't part with because I want them selfishly as mine. They’re not bad things by any stretch, just not common knowledge, not to anyone.
Most of my secrets aren’t naughty or irreverent because those are called “skeletons” and I have more than a few of them as well. The keeper of those is sworn to the deepest depths of her being and will never reveal them. Of this, I am 100% confident. Plus, I can resort to black mail if necessary because she has way too many bones out there too, for which I oversee. It’s nice to have a friend like that, of 30 years.
She’s also kept secrets in the form of letters I desired to keep forever that didn’t have a place in my home anymore. Although opened by me over 25 years ago, I’m certain she’s never read a single word of them. It’s the kind of person she is.
Many of my secrets, past and present, turn back to letters I've written.
I have always had a relationship with handwritten letters, for as long back as I can remember. Maybe because that’s just how it was; the only private way to communicate with anyone.
“Private” was a secret in itself sometimes. Precarious. That’s part of the allure of some letters, isn’t it?
I became a proficient note passer in grade school with a stellar record in confiscation. In high school, love letters were hand delivered because posting them risked an interloping mom’s eyes. College letters found the blue box and I’d wait with bated breath for words to be returned. Waiting was the best part.
And it continued; my letter writing and still does to this day.
Anyone who has been or is special to me has had a letter written to them by moi. The secret there becomes the ones that were mailed that possibly shouldn’t have been many years ago rendering return mail unable to be saved once read. Letters not inappropriate in content per se but to whom they were written and why.
Then there are the letters written in secret, for my eyes only, that have never been mailed and the potential recipient will never know of their existence. They will never receive a postmark.
I wrote one of those recently; one that will never be mailed. I’ve kept it, hidden.
The scariest thing is I recently dreamt I called the addressee asking for their information to send them my handwritten letter. This would never happen for many reasons but mostly because I don’t want its contents revealed. Ever.