The Memory Box

by Eva Lesko Natiello

The thing about secrets is they’re mostly regrets, aren’t they? I mean, “good news” secrets aren’t really meant to be kept. Just the embarrassing, shameful kind.

Should mistakes be tattooed on forearms?

Both of them have an ability to soar above the clothesline of others’ dirty laundry. They rarely engage in it.

I have no desire to wear my friends like charms on a bracelet. I have dear friends. We’re very close, too.

The problem is I’m not choking on a foreign body; I’m choking on my own body.

JD is—was—the kind of girl, who, if you told her a piece of the sky had fallen, would help you look for it and then figure out how to get it back where it came from.

My head is filled with nine cups of firmly packed brown sugar.

My ghosts are haunting me everywhere.

But ultimately, common sense tells me I’m just leaving one haunted house for another.

Secrets are likes knives. Aren’t they? While some are dull, others can do quite a bit of damage.