From time to time, we plant strange secrets down deep into bad soil where they have no chance of catching sunlight. Painful ones that we don’t dare want to see grow. Blunt forced ones that left us bruised in places we don’t even show to our spouses. Regretful ones that make us kick cuts into our own sore ankles. But the strange are the ones we’re here for today. The ones we stumble on when we’re planting this year’s batch of tomato seeds. We uncover them like capsules and think, huh, why would I bury such a strange and wonderful thing. Then we transplant Strange into the most composted, sun-lit batch of yard we can find. And after all this time, that strange thing turns into something wonderful, a story (however brief).


Throughout adolescence, I violently shook. Like a wayward leaf in a windy place, I shook. Like a thunder-scared dog in a storm, I shook. Like an old car on old tires, I shook. The shaking shook school desks, held books, and most of all, my young mind. I’d will myself to stop but self wouldn’t listen. Pencils never left their carved indentures at the top of wooden desks out of fear that someone might bear witness to my shaking hands. The same hands that never raised for extra credit, they were too busy shaking. Mind occupied, I flunked out. After a report card boasting mostly F’s, I left high school on screeching wheels. And the day I did, I was forever free of the shaking.

To this day, I have no idea why I shook. Too, I can’t firmly stamp down the reason I buried the fact that I did, even from my therapist. Outside of you, dear reader(s), no one else knows. But today, you represent my sun-lit batch of yard. My earthy compost. Therefore, I ask you this: Why did I shake? Why did it stop so abruptly post high school? Why, dear, did I bury it for so many years?

I trust you, my precious reader(s), to do with this information what you will.


Randi PinkComment