Writing again

Many years ago, upon returning from a wild and unrestricted shopping spree in my new candy apple red porsche, I saw a small space on the patio just yards from the oceans crashing waves, that was black with ashes.

"Was there a fire?" I asked of the older man, the source of my new found wealth, as he sat in his richly appointed office, his face bloated from hours of crying.

"Yes there was a fire!" As he angrily unfolded the story a shock went through my body and I crumpled to my knees, too stunned to cry, too stunned to react with words. A large box of brown cardboard, the faded word Mayflower on its weakened sides; the folded tops, lovingily opened a million times; the black pen marks scribbling out a warning "PERSONAL - DO NOT OPEN," "OPEN AT YOUR OWN RISK," lay in ashes, blowing softly into the world of sand and sea. It held every paper, every story, every treasured real and fictional part of my life from the time I was eight years old until that day, twenty years later.

"I found your box in the garage. I think you wanted me to read what was in it. It made me sick. You are not the person in that box, and I don't ever want to see that person in my home, understood?"

Fire and ashes not only consumed my writings that day, but my desire to ever write again. Did I understand? No. And that person in the box never emerged again, but not for wanting to. I gave in to my ex-husbands rage, determined to make this marriage work. I gave in to his wishes, his wealth, his clout, and to his power.

My children beg me to write about the tales of my travels and I always use the excuse that I am searching for a significance in those stories. Afraid to reveal myself, afraid I might not be able to like that person, because a man I thought I loved didn't like her, I remain closed up, waiting for the proper 'significance' to come along.

I struggle here and now, but committed to telling the tales, for maybe some young woman or man will find a path away from the destruction that can waylay their life.