As a child I lived in a house of secrets. day by day they were stitched into the frocks my mother made for me knitted into my cardys and beaten into the bowl of flour eggs sugar and butter that made up our afternoon teas.
I fancied that they waited on the edge of the room when I entered and lay sullenly under my bed at night while I slept.
sometimes I determined to sneak up on them and stealthily crept along the hallway to the living room when Mum and Dad were chatting.
I tried to breathe silent as a mouse in the doorway listening hard and on rare occasions was rewarded with a snippet of a story.
I would take this into my hoard and puzzle endlessly over these tidbits. on the odd times I bravely sort information I was batted away affectionately enough to be sure but in such a way that I learnt not ask that question again.
my only recourse was to imagine and this I did lying in bed at night pulling out the pieces and stitching them into a pattern.
I concluded that I was adopted – at the time there was obvious evidence to support this theory –I was the only one in the family with auburn coppery curls and freckles all over her face.
by sixteen I discovered that this was in fact not the case – the truth was slippery and full of holes .
over time my sisters and I sought out aunties uncles and aging friends – tight lipped and friendly we patched at the past as best we could .
mum left the planet and dad has nothing to say.
the full measure of the story remain as secrets resting in the coffin with her.