Saturdays

I wrote a short story once. I felt uncomfortable turning it in. But I did it anyway, because somehow it felt right, I needed it. That story completed my small collection of vignettes. An autobiography.

And I was wary. What would the teacher say? The one who loved everything I'd ever written, nominated me for the kinds of programs and conferences most people never hear about. I'd thrown my homosexuality down onto that paper and slapped him in the face with it.

School was almost over, and when he handed back our projects he held mine a second too long and smiled warmly.

"This is the best I've ever seen you write."

And he was pointing to that one, the one. I'd hated it so much.

"Saturdays" it was called. He'd written a whole sticky note full of praise and it saddened me I'll never show it to anyone else, because sometimes being honest is just too hard.