Hidden, Not Hidden

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

I have been thinking about longing — what it means in my life, how it shows up, and if I even understand the word in the first place. As I trace my own history of longing, I am finding memories, patiently waiting for discovery. They come to me like distant friends and tell me more of who I am.

I grew up Pandora with no box to tempt me.

No beckoning from hidden corners,

no forbidden gleam at the corner of my eye,

no half-heard whispers behind closet doors.

This is what I remember in the noon light.

As the daylight drops behind the reddening autumn leaves —

I remember a child—

Writhing myself awake in the inky midnight dark.

(the only hours I could see behind the layers of propriety)

Breathing in musky, citrus-edged perfume

that wafted from behind the back closet wall.

Speaking to the hidden trees with the furthest edges of my throat.

Gazing with frozen wonder at the box underneath my bed,

opened, pouring light so bright it almost levitated.

Buzzing through every sense and sensation —

not yet strong enough to will myself awake till morning.