Teppy, just so you know, because of the drabble community and the couple or three I've done, I wrote two poems yesterday. I haven't written anything beyond an LJ or posting-board post or a letter for nearly two years.

They're not great poems, they need work, which I will happily do. But I wrote them. So thank you.

Thanks, Deb and lisah. But that was hard, despite the fact that I construct a character from those details first...what perfume they like, what they drink. I could tell you what's in the Homicide squad's medicine cabinets...I won't, not to worry.

Well...I'm intimidated by the wonderful drabbles already in here, but I think I'll break my fear by just writing one. And since we're being brave...a bit more than 100 words to dredge up a painfully brittle memory of my own. (Boy, this is almost as scary to post as the actual memory was.)

I have always had a drawer full of cards. I learned it from my mother: birthday, anniversary, sympathy, frienship. Coping. A choice of sentiment.

The one in my hands now feels like every other I have ever held. Stiff cardstock paper, the edge of the envelope pressing against my thumb. But this time, my fingers are sweating, leaving wet imprints on the clean surface.

I don't want to give it to him.

I am holding the unspoken secret. I am acknowledging a truth we are all too scared to talk about. Keep it quiet, keep him safe. Ignore it. Pretend it doesn't exist. Deny.

Ten years after I found out, eight years after he knew I knew, I finally can't stand the silence anymore.

Hallmark doesn't have a card for this. This one was blank inside before I wrote the most terrifying two sentences of my life:

Dad, it's okay that you're gay. I love you.

KristenT, is it OK to react to that by going "How neat!" Silly Hallmark. Need to catch up to the modern world.

Hope it all worked out.

Connie - of course it is okay to react to it that way. It worked out, sort of. I mean, it's all good with my dad and me. I wouldn't say we exactly have an open discourse about the subject or anything (he's 61, was raised Roman Catholic in the 50's, and taught high school for 37 years--closeted does not even begin to describe), but he's much more open than he used to be.

Let me tell you, there is one hell of a book in the story of my relationship with my dad (and of his with my mom, who asked for a divorce just 11 years ago, 19 years into their marriage), but it's one I can't ever write.

Posting here scares the hell out of me because it has been so instilled in me (by my mother of all people) that it is not my secret to share, but--this is at least somewhat anonymous.

Kristin, you aren't alone among my friends who learned, as adults, that one parent was in fact gay.

You know what's neat? Not one person I know had any problem with it, at all.

And that's a lovely drabble.

That is a beautiful drabble, Krisitin.

Uh-oh.

I think I may have just done something dumb.

I've just written the first third of the prologue for a book I wasn't planning to write for another two years.

Damn it.

Can't help it. Laughing now.

I laugh because I love, Deb. Is this the standalone you were talking about last week? Tell me it isn't yet another book. Besides the standalone, the Child Ballad one you're finishing, and the one after that, I mean.

Well Deb, I can't help it. I'm with Bev with the laughing.