Devonne Brown

My secrets are not juicy enough to qualify me for public office but harsh enough for me to carry to my grave. 

There is no reason for some stuff to ever swim to the surface or for anybody to ever catch wind of. 

I am not an open book. Never was. Don’t want to be. Nobody is. 

I won’t lie to you, but knowing everything about me is not a prerequisite for anything.  Even if you get down on one knee and beg me to marry you. Everything is none of anybody’s business. We’re not ever going to sit down and list our sins. 

I’ve already had two weddings. Was that the reason I didn’t have just one?

Dad walked me down the aisle for the first. 

I walked alone for the last.

I’m sure everyone feels better for those two revelations. 

Neither path was planted with camomile, to make the journey sweeter when the petals were crushed underfoot like in the old days. They saved so much money on rose petals then.

I’ve been in too many lonesome valleys. We all have. Our secrets make us strong, we learn from them and protect them. They are our battle scars and armor. How we wear them gives us dignity or foolishness. I choose dignity and hope I can pull it off. More times than not, I’m sure I seem like the village idiot, the pariah with a big scarlet LOSER emblazoned on her chest. I roll like that when I’m not being the sage.

If reincarnation is a thing, I wonder what game show in a previous life earned me a lifetime supply of shrinks? What heinous acts did I perform? Is this a punishment for a crime or a lady lesson to be learned?  What if this life is the big reward for learning something I got better at in the Grand Before?

I am not liking these baby steps at all.  

Why is it important for me to share these dark and dreary things? They aren’t illegal, but why do they need some sort of human judgment? Sentence me anyway. Throw all seven sentence patterns at me. You’re frothing at the mouth to go to town on me. Be careful. We all have secrets.

I’m not important enough for my secrets to kill me.