If I told you how tired I really am, you might blanche.
If I told you how much doubt I bury in each shred of correspondence, you might raise your eyebrows.
If I told you the full measure of my concern about the future my kids will face, you might pass out.
If I told you where my anger resides and when it erupts like a volcano, you might never ask me another thing.
If I told you all the things I cannot dare to tell myself, we both might be washed away in a tidal wave of shock and disbelief.
We might not survive hearing all the truth at one time, in one sitting, in one go.
That must be why we don’t do this.
Why I haven’t told you yet.
Why I will likely never tell.
Instead, I keep quiet and my counsel. I can see that we are not fit for the weather of my deep realities.