Burying the Past

Before the ground froze and winter arrived, I went on a treasure hunt. After thirty years of separation anxiety, I went back to try and find a personal diary that I packed in Ziploc bags and buried in shallow ground as a confused teenager. All you Geo cache hunters eat your heart out. I only remember writing my innermost thoughts in the diary but do not recall details of what I wrote. What did I write as a hormonal misunderstood and troubled teenager? What high octane underlined grievances laced the pages? What burgeoning fantasies undermined my developing sexuality would I unearth? I could not wait for my eyes to lace the pages.

After a twenty-mile drive, I pulled curbside near the spot. I got no further than a few feet from the curb in my excavation efforts. Decades gone by, I looked around to be certain that my coordinates were correct. My internal compass indicated that I was in the right place. In this still undeveloped property below my feet, I buried my personal diary. Although thinned out, the clump of woods remained standing on its own. Everything looked the same except for a staked sign at ground zero where I buried my diary. Unmistakable in its warning, a NO DUMPING sign prominently faced the road. I would not be surprised if the person responsible for digging the hole that now staked the sign actually unearthed my diary. The thought of my private thoughts made for public consumption simply ate at me. Thirty years had passed since my last entry. My children are as old as I was when I penned those diary thoughts.

It is not good to be caught digging up the past nor be accused of dumping it on private property. I strangely left this mystical place without my packed shovel ever leaving the car. The past would have to wait some more.