Every new place we'd move to, I'd hope and wish that a diary was left behind, tucked far back into a closet, or under a cupboard somewhere. Instead I found only nails and screws, and that odd, cheap crucifix inside the frame of the door. But nothing that spoke of another, nothing that spoke of secrets.

Searching for that sharp thrill, like when you'd turn over one of the big rocks in the backyard and see all those grey bugs scrambling about, delighted that you had disturbed them and they had disturbed you. That's when you understood about little universes and the underneath of things and then you couldn't go back to the ordinary. Ever.

Today is one of those days. The air is still, like someone or something has stopped it. Even the trees are menacing, the way they stand, waiting to move, but don't. And maybe the ordinary isn't ordinary anymore.