I am afraid. I am afraid of what will come of a desperate phone call in the middle of the night, of shadows from hanging shirts, of imaginative eyes in tall grass. I am afraid of losing money, of losing you, of saying words that cut and live in my heart. I am afraid of it all, like children, and I am afraid I will grow out of my child’s skin or that I never will. I am afraid we will one day run or compromise or pretend it is what it should be. I am afraid nothing will be as it was, and I know that it will hurt. I am afraid of the hurt. I am afraid of the truth, sometimes; when I know it’s mine for the telling and that it is fragile like glass. Fear presses in and promises never to let anyone too close – because the risk is too great. Fear promises to prepare me for what’s around every corner, to give me peace of mind because how else will I cope? Fear is a narrative about a thief who steals trust, a king and a slave, a promised remedy and a lie, and a grasping after what will never heal.