I dug up the last of them from the backyard and plucked each from a rusty coffee can. Creased and yellowed, I smoothed them out, tracing their folds with my dirt-caked fingernails.
These are all of my secrets I tell you. Synonymous with mistakes you tell me.
In that moment, something leaden, like guilt, threads through my pursed lips, but I donβt let it pull tight. I carefully rip each stitch, instead, and remember why they were buried. With my seamless smile, I grin widely, without doubt, knowing it was okay to finally let them breathe.