Bench and old door in Bahrain.
Image via Wikipedia

I think I know what’s behind that door.  I have an inventory of its contents, though it’s not coherent.  They are a blurry mush of concepts and feelings and events I may not want to relive.  But I remember them, every day.  They come to me unexpected and unwanted.  Some are sweet at first.  But they all turn bitter.  Or sour.  Or putrid.

Long ago, when I was a child inside a woman’s body, I decided not to dwell on any of these things.  It seemed logical to put them inside this little closet, where they would not interfere with going to school and making friends and growing up.  It worked really well, and for many years when a disturbing memory or an unkind truth came to mind, I diligently placed it with the others. 

But lately, I find myself staring at the door, wondering if I should open it.  I am older, hopefully wiser, and have learned to cope with these images individually.  I think I can manage it.  Besides, they’re just old memories.  What’s the worst that can happen?

I wonder if this is how Pandora felt.


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