Julia Wendell

The trunk in the foyer was empty, nothing apparently worth saving—nothing to hint at who was growing up, learning to keep secrets—learning what children do in fear of losing something already lost.  

I hid, ‘til sniffling betrayed me to Father, who lifted the lid, to bring me to dinner. I folded my hands for grace, as one brother’s hand sought my cringing thigh, while the other mouthed the obligatory words.

Shame emptied me when I opened the walnut chest, its row of armored knights rising in relief from the wood, swords and coats of arms, ready to bring back The Grail and guard my virtue. One stood with palms over eyes, doing what a child would do who has seen too much.