I found an old one stuffed away, untouched, unopened for years. Maybe I should have left it in the nether region of the closet where I’d shoved it, but it’s spring, and akin to the nesting impulse which sets in as soon as the first autumn chill haunts the house, a similarly strong impulse to clean and sort and paw through hidden possessions takes hold when the walls warm. That closet, that dark unlit space with the musty scent, and the suitcase deep inside it couldn’t be ignored.

As often happens, no matter how compelled I am to complete the task in front of me, I got distracted. The worn leather container that had been around the world, then passed on half a century ago, was adorned with wisps of dust and spider weavings, but it had history, it had secrets. So, I pulled it into the open, wiped it down, unlatched the still remarkably shiny brass closures, and lifted the lid.

Within were stacks of forgotten stories with faded dot matrix print—some complete, some not, some no more than fragments. And some, phrases only—each dot a seed waiting to germinate.

As I read through what was there, I could see my younger self abandoning them, saying, “No more; not now,” and moving on to something else. The dark spaces of the psyche are not comfortable places to inhabit, and many of these stories settled far too easily into those places. But, age and years of distance have their benefits, and I ventured into them without hesitation, without fear.

In the next few weeks, as I revise, I may share some in whole or part. I’ll see. If I do, they’ll be tagged, “Suburban Gothic.” Consider yourselves forewarned.

Wishing all a good week.

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