hiding

It isn’t often that I want to hide. Sometimes I just need to hide. Do you ever feel like that? Like you’d feel the most comfortable if you were sitting in the hall closet on the floor, in the corner, looking at silvery light just coming in under the door? I did that once. I sat in my mother’s closet (her clothing permeated permanently with Elizabeth Taylor’s “Passion”) and pressed my face against the hem of her faux fur that Daddy bought her. I think I stayed in there for about two hours.

I miss that closet.
And her perfume on that fur.
But not the feel of Daddy’s  cowboy boots (smell that leather!) behind my back.

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