Sleep falls mercifully upon me.
On waking I notice a trunk fastened to the floor by cobwebs so fragile they could be broken with a breath. I pluck at the soft and sticky strands nearest the lock as if playing upon a harp. They let go and, seeming magnetic, cling to my hands. I shudder and wipe them on my dress. My dress? Yes, I am wearing a beautiful white dress — soft and luminous and full of little-girl pleats. I don't remember this dress but I do love it. It makes me feel innocent...sweet.
I open the trunk and on tiptoes peek in. Fear and sadness almost overwhelm me; I want to jump back but don't. As I reach in, my hands come upon a box which I bring out into the light. It's a beautiful new Sorry game. No, I don't want this game and try to put it back, but it has suddenly become so heavy I can't lift it high enough to get it into the trunk. What has weighed it down? Oh, yes, now I recall. My poor little sister didn't stand a chance with me. I was four years older and far craftier than she. For some reason that Christmas we both got identical Sorry games; I guess to eliminate some of the bickering. I knew Mom's plan wouldn't work entirely because there was still the issue of whose game would be played when Elena and I were both involved.
Oh, how I had to maneuver and manipulate to make sure it was Elena's game and not mine. Mine, neatly wrapped with cellophane to protect it's precious contents: a beautiful board still smelling like fresh paint, all sorts of little pieces held back by more cellophane to keep them secure in their individual little nests, and cards so slippery they would shoot out like a stream of water. I would never unwrap them, then they would remain forever new, forever wonderful, forever mine. Yes, my game would stay there, beautiful and untouched, on the second shelf of the closet, the left hand side, the side nearest the door — my side, my world, my tabernacle.
"Hey, who wants to play a game of Sorry?"
We all did. My heart pounded as I jumped up and ran to the closet to bring out Elena's game. I watched as they ripped off the cellophane, crumpling it up and throwing it into the trash can next to the desk. As each "next thing" was opened, I felt myself grow uneasy at the thought of Elena's game being violated like this and mine on the shelf in the closet, still beautiful and new.
Her game was now open and cards flew everywhere. People laughed as they scampered around to pick them up. "Boy, I hope I get this one when the game starts. Maybe I'll just slip it in my pocket now for safe keeping." Again everyone laughed. Laughed, can you imagine that? They laughed at her cards lying all over the floor.
Next they broke into the cardboard pen that held those magnificent wooden pegs in the brightest of colors. They were so smooth and shiny it felt as if they had been waxed a thousand times. Waxed and never touched, never so much as even breathed upon. Never anything but beautiful.
I watched those pegs be cupped between two hands and shook all around — bumping, colliding, gathering dampness — then held out for everyone to pick. A mad grab and they all disappeared. Individual hands now twisted and rubbed off the shine in the fever of the game about to begin. I was so glad my pieces were still safe in that closet, safe from all these hands that would be touching them.
The game began with the sound of the dice hitting the board and tumbling over and over until a howl signaled the starting player. The dice were tossed again, this time followed by the staccato march of the first player's piece making its trip around the board. All eyes were riveted on it..."one," click, "two," click, "three," click, "four," click. Again and again: the dice, the count, the march; the dice, the count, the march.
For an hour all that could be heard were these sounds, broken into periodically by bursts of laughter or an excited whoop or two. That is all anyone could hear...except me. Louder than the voices, louder than the dice, louder than the noise of the lively game in progress was the deafening sound of the cellophane, still alive and trying to un-crinkle itself in the trash can next to the desk. I just knew it would get out and chase after me for being so bad. Yes, pretty soon everyone would know. Would anyone still like me, trust me, want me around?
Elena deserved a better sister than I. She was younger, smaller, more innocent, and she relied on me for companionship in those early years of childhood restrictions. She trusted me and I tricked her time after time after time because I was so worried about myself and so capable of fooling everyone.
I never felt good about what I accomplished, however, only momentarily relieved. Shame and fear of discovery would then overcome me. Those ugly feelings never stopped me from doing it again though. It seemed as if I couldn't help myself... and, sometimes, still can't.
You must get rid of that closet for it is not a tabernacle but a tomb. It represents childhood's needs both met and unmet, and means death for the person you want to become. Create no more hiding places. Make of your heart a generous place where others can laugh, live, play, and find shelter from life's storms.
Yes, yes, I will, I will, for I no longer want to store my precious life in a dark closet where it will remain safe and never touched.
Come, come now all of you, share in my treasures. Let my ears resound with the joyful noises of life and laughter and the sound of cellophane, lots and lots of cellophane crinkling and filling the air with its song. Yes, come now, I beg you, please come. My joy is abounding.
No one came. The moment remained empty and still.