I’m writing this late Friday afternoon which guarantees nobody will read it so I’ll tell you a secret.
When a manilla envelope with my name scrawled on it in handwriting I don’t recognize appears in an upstairs room, I think:
Maybe it has the silver ticket to the secret world going on behind every corner. The ghosts I hear while peering into the dark when I tell myself it’s the house settling but my heart won’t listen. The lurker that fades into a shadow no matter how quietly I creep upon it. The world of closets and under-the-beds and full moons and strange weather patterns and knowing cats and talking dogs and unnatural speed or strength or visions or legacy. Where some creatures live forever and others disappear the instant after the prophecy is given. I promise the unexpected touch by the bed is only my cat and the scratching at the window is merely branches from a tree that must be close enough with all the unpredicted wind, but finally, my red pill. The world unfolded.
But my manilla envelope is empty. I can’t decide if already took the pill or if I need to be taking pills on a more regular basis.