Something happened on this date exactly ten years ago, but I have never written a word about it. I have not even hinted at it in my writings, either. And I must not write about it now or ever. It is a secret. If it were up to me, it would not be a secret, but I respect the wishes of people close to me. The secret is ours rather than mine. For I have no secrets of my own—not that I know of, at any rate. Luckily, there are not too many people I am close to, for I would have many more secrets to worry about. They would weigh quite heavily upon me, I am sure. For even the secret I am talking about right now is not exactly easy on me. Our secret is outright painful for at least two reasons, one of which is that it is a secret. Which is why I have no secrets of my own, no doubt whatsoever. As such, they would be too much of a burden for me. As they would ricochet through my mind every now and then, they would drive me crazy. And I would be dying to write about them for all to see. Just as I am dying to write right now about that something that happened on this date exactly ten years ago…

Addendum (January 2, 2022)

As I have learned over the end-of-the-year holidays last week, there is a glaring error to this piece. Its date, that is. That something actually happened on July 11, 2004. Amazingly enough, there is another piece of writing in my Residua that refers to that something, but it is not even mentioned in this piece (“Such Things,” July 15, 2004). Its date is off the mark, too. For my sins, I was not fully aware of the nitty-gritty of our secret at the time it had come to pass. At the time, I was far away from the person with whom I was to share this secret for all these years. Which is why it remains a blur in my mind, its date included. And a blur it is likely to remain for the rest of my life. Minus its date, I hasten to add. That date is as good as chiseled in my mind by now.