Some Thing Old

For D
I read about her death.
An accident, they said.
But between the lines were hints
of the unmentioned empties they found in her closet, her cabinets, her trunk, her heart, and the note she left for nobody and everybody….
the silent scream.
She was the girl I wanted to be with the parents I wanted to own me.
She had the life I would have died for….
the one for which she died instead.
Old is the path I trod to her grave.
Old is the resolve of her mother who never gave up, never gives up the key that could have, would have freed her from the chains that bound her to the darkness and wed her to the demons who loved her scars and hated her possibilities.
Old is the voice of her father who finally abandons the code talk of his secret sins and asks for a second chance…. could I please have another chance?
Old is the belief that it is better to let sleeping dogs lie, that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, that all things work together for good for those who…blah, blah, blah.
Old is my criteria for measuring the quality of life.
Her children will have to wait to know the answer to the question they can’t stop asking: why?
Their coming of age will be a coming of truth.
And I wonder if the truth will set them free or set them up.

Tuesday's contribution to Lisa's Blog Carnival