I looked into his eyes and saw rivers of sadness and shame and hid my pain away, these nine months of Sundays, because I couldn't bear to show him mine. At home in my room, I pulled down the shoe box filled with folded yellow letters in Papa's careful script and wept for the dad I couldn't admit I needed.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It's one of those parts of me I can't trace back to a specific place or event in time, only that it's as if I were born with an innate self-moderating device which gagged my voice, made me shrink back from needing.
I'm honored to have been invited to guest post at my friend Kelli's place today, for a series this month on "Brave words" - so will you join me there for the rest of this story?
Thank you, from my heart.