The Secret of the Past

28 readings

0 vote


The clock strikes midnight.
Another night of endless thoughts,
Leads me to the loneliness of the open road,
Traveling to my childhood home.

Windows are down, a cold breeze blows in,
Blowing on my bare neck.
The twisty road is dark (only my headlights project light).
I am focused on my destination-- tensely.

Hours pass, and now pulling into the unlit gravel driveway,
A sudden urge to turn back around.
I keep going knowing this must be done and,
I enter through the aged wooden door.

As I walk through the doorway,
I recall all my times here—arguments and celebrations.
Memories that come to life,
As I enter my old bedroom

The walls are still light purple,
So many emotions tied to this room,
However, I am not here to reminisce.
I grab my worn-out valuable journal and exit.

On to the next task, I head to my parents’ room.
The room is a disaster, it is hard to even walk,
Around the empty beer cans and cigarettes covering the floor.
I take the black leather chest and leave.

My old kitchen is the last stop I make
During this journey of my past.
The kitchen smells of rubbish and dishes still piled in the sink,
I find the key hidden, needed for the chest.

As I depart from the house, I run my fingers across,
The delicate framework, just one last time.
This home full of daunting secrets,
Makes me feel--eerie.

It is now four am, I must be home by twilight,
No one can know I was here.
I turn my key in the ignition,
The car engine starts, and I am on my way.

The car ride is silent, windows are down.
I recall my actions of the night
And feel some regret,
But I am aware this must have been done.

I arrive at my mother’s current address (I have not seen her in years)
I leave the key, chest, and journal,
On her front doorstep,
And walk away.


Image of The Witching Hour


Few words for the author? Comment below.

Take a look at our advice on commenting here

To post comments, please