When the Spring Comes Around

I did not expect to be back so soon, telling you this.

Can we not round up and say that it has been a year since we've spoken? Can we assume that things have changed, that I am different now? I will spare you the half-botched confessions and get on with it: You and I are no longer a secret.

I have told them. They know.

I could say that it was a lie I told too perfectly or a slip of paper I hid away too quickly that gave me away. I could say that someone else told. But the truth is this: I told.

I took a writing class. I went to readings. I sent in poems. I got published. I entered a contest. I won a contest. The head of the English department stopped me on campus to personally congratulate me.

My world spun, the story has turned into something different. Now here we are. It has stopped. Click. Now they know.

I'm not going to say I won't be back here again. It's a comfort to know that As I Wrote One Day is still here when I need it. I've been back on nights when I couldn't sleep to look back at the pages. 3 years ago, 2 years ago when I only lived and told the truth when I wrote here, when I was just Some Girl and no one cared. When I thought that this was as good as it gets, to be known only a fraction through the slits of these sentences. I gave up writing and found it again. Then I gave up my secret and found the rest of me. If anyone is still reading this, please keep in touch.

I told you we'd meet again sometime.