you just don’t want to go into it any more.
For the rest of you. Here’s a story.When I was a kid, we used to have a telephone on a long long cord. We would pull it across the hallway from the kitchen to the basement door, where we would sit on the third step down and have private conversations with our boyfriends. Or for my sisters- their friends. My dad tripped over that cord a few times and made it even longer , so that there was enough slack to twist around your finger or get knotted up in your long blonde hair as you talked in whispers to boys from the wrong side of town. Once I picked up the extension when my sister was talking about her plan to sneak over to the local drinking spot in the woods for a party after the big game- even though she was grounded. I used that to my advantage.
Thing was, when I was down there, perched on the steps, I would doodle on the wall– names, designs, phone numbers- when they were only 5 digits long–I had written some boys names over others, scratched out the eyes and added devil horns to the heads of poorly sketched cheerleaders. My sisters joined in and soon that wall was estrogen induced art. It told stories of our youth and was more permanent than the journal I’d lose when packing up the third apartment.
A few years ago my father called us all to tell us he had painted over the wall- not that he was going to, but that he had done it. Without even a photograph. I miss that wall. I miss the snarls in my hair from that cord. I miss having a place where I can close the door and write my secrets on a wall in plain view.