Hiding Places

Some days, I look within the book of myself onto the pages I have filled, and sigh. The folds of light and dark portray scenes, some simple, and others horrific. I sit still now. I have no need to wander. Today, I find the child, who rode a battered bike miles to hide within the library. sister runs behind me – a faded Kodak The building was brick, shaped in the round. I see it still: I see its trim, a heavy lacquered bead-board of white; the windows, broad and high; the door that opens with the depression of a brass lever. I can smell the books and the lavender perfume of the petite, round-shouldered, librarian. There is so much color, and light. The rolling ladders rumbled as I move them to climb, reaching for the jewel-colored books. There were many of us there most Saturday mornings, girls in hiding. I never thought to wonder why. In pigtails, ponytails, and raucous curls: we would sit upon the floor within the stacks, our own piles of ‘get-a-ways’ in front of us. I loved Nancy Drew. I imagined her leading the boys into an attic, where blue-black chests were piled high to solve The Mystery of the Missing Child. an open diary lays beneath her hand – pressed violets There were no chests in my house, no place to hide from the screams. It’s horrid to be a blank-paged book in waiting. Outside and inside, there was just fear. Who would get me? What would they do? I can almost taste the hair of my ponytail. Where did you hide? Do you hide there still? First Published Vine Leaves Literary Journal Issue #10 2014