Childhood has a strange way of preserving feelings long after it erases the details. The reason fades, faces blur. Yet, a hallway, a shadow, and a particular sound of footsteps can remain sharp for decades. Human memory apparently is run by an archivist who throws away the paperwork and keeps the ghosts.
As a child, I shudder still when I recall the endlessly stretching hallway where we lived, a tunnel of dim light and held breath. I thought I was small enough to disappear behind a half-open door, pressed against the wall as footsteps echoed closer. Each creak of the floorboards felt like a warning and I watched his shadow arrive before he did. The apartment seemed to hold its breath with me. I don’t remember why I was hiding anymore, only the feeling of the cold knot in my stomach, the silence between heartbeats and the certainty that being found would change something forever.
From the Writer’s Workshop: Talk about a time you hid from someone.
