I’m a hider of things.
Not big things. I don’t have a couch hidden anywhere, or, from what I can recall anyway, any livestock…
No. I’m pretty sure I don’t have any livestock.
But hide little things? Yes. I hide little things.
We traveled extensively when I was a child; and when I say we “traveled”, it’s more like we “moved”. Picked up the trailer and moved. And so, to amuse myself – and perhaps to make myself feel better about it – I took to hiding things, knowing that I would find them later.
For instance, I once a hid a note to myself in the hem of a dress. I liked that dress, but like so many children, I was prone to growing; and so grow I did, right out of that dress. Years later, when forced by my mother into physical labor, i.e., doing something about the state of my closet, I was folding up the dress for a run to the Goodwill when I felt something crunchy at the hem.
I felt around and noticed a stitch missing – not enough to bring the hem down, but enough to slip a note in.
“Dear Pearl,” the note said. “You look very nice today. P.S., Don’t forget that Lori owes you fifty cents.”
Hmmm. Lori was two towns ago.
Go ahead, Lori. Keep the money.
I think a lot of people find, when things get tough, little ways to make themselves feel better. I’ve found notes in books, taped to the backs of pictures. I even recall, now that I think of it, trying to force a note into the head of my Barbie…
We all hide things: our fears; our loneliness; our hopes, fervent and precious, that tomorrow will be better. And sometimes, we find comfort, no matter how small, in the things we do for ourselves.
p.s. You look very nice today.
4 hours ago