Safety

You are nine, have taken a long way home, and by now, your mother is frantic. The ache in your bruised bones tells you so.

Because it looks like rain, you have two choices, duck into the house beside the trail or arrive home sopping wet. Either option will prove dreadful. Seeking shelter equals increased tardiness; coming home in soggy clothes guarantees a hailstorm of anger. Both promise a beating.

So, you choose shelter. You are two feet away. The door glides open. A wood fire, the scent of rabbit stew, and a waxen-winged woman greet you. She smiles. “Welcome home.”

Legitimate Secrets

This week Pegman took us to Goizueta, Navarre in Spain. Thanks, Karen. Now I want to visit this gorgeous country.

A delicate balance, our relationship. You down beside the road, me up on the hill. My husband leaves. Your wife returns. My husband returns. Your wife goes into town.
A mere half-hour passes in between. When no one watches we exchange winks and nods. Touch hands in our kitchen or your hallway.
Our children play together. Sadly we use their playtime to exchange notes; tuck papers inside their tiny socks. It’s not our fault. We do what we can.
I don’t believe either of us remembers how this started. Church? The market? Whispers in the alley?
But we must keep up our relationship. We must, for if we don’t, one or all of us will surely die. Times have come to that.
We no longer know which side we’re on, but we do know our secret exchanges will keep our families from dying in our country’s ugly war.