Once the air is finally calm,
people at church grow angry.
In this city, we’ve always had a tradition
of writing notes to God, revealing secrets
which will be burned just as soon as the priests
finish praying about all our private letters
without reading a single word.
When I see Bernarda carefully folding
the paper that holds our family’s confessions,
I wonder if her letter might include anything
about my mother’s disappearance, or the identity
of my dead father.
We trust the priests.
They’re kind men who give chocolates to children.
Nevertheless, in this case they turn out to be dishonest.
Someone catches them reading the whole town’s
basket of notes, laughing and whispering
about our secret lives.
It’s an offense so serious
that they are sent away,
leaving the children of our town
without chocolates
or trust.
I don’t know which is worse,
my sudden awareness that grown-ups
know all sorts of devious secrets,
or my imagination,
which runs wild,
creating stories that might be
even more horrible
than those folded letters
filled with hidden truths.
When all the confessions are finally burned,
I gaze at the basket of ashes, still wondering
if the papery dust contains any tales
about my parents.