A Truth Untold by Mikaela

Mikaela is writing a bunch of short stories for 13 Days 13 Shorts this year! To check out more stuff from Mikaela, visit www.mikaelamiyamoto.com

A Truth Untold

My earliest childhood memories are of my grandmothers house. I can most strongly remember two things: the way the house made me feel and the bookshelf in the hallway. Her house was creativity and curiosity and exploration and light.  She made me feel safe and welcomed and so did the house. Except for the hallway that led to her room. It was eerie and swallowed by the darkness. Rich mahogany floors surrounded by dark paneled cabinets. But at the end of the hallway next to her bedroom door was a beautiful, ornately carved bookshelf. It was lit with special lights, like a welcome sign for her room. And on that shelf was the most beautiful emerald green book with shiny gold lettering. The spine read “A Truth Untold”. One of the few times I was allowed near her room, my grandmother caught me staring at the book. She scolded me with her eyes then said, “Don’t ever touch that book. Don’t open it. Don’t even look at it. It’s not for children.” I nodded and turned my body away from the bookshelf. She grabbed my hand and led me back to the light of the kitchen. We never spoke of it again. Although that didn’t stop the curiosity growing in my brain.  I tried to ask my mother about it but she feigned ignorance as if she’d never heard of such a book. I figured it would remain a mystery in my head forever. Until my grandmother passed away. As we packed away our memories and her things my mind went back to the book. I volunteered to pack away the bookshelf in the hopes of finally seeing what was in that book. I carefully examined each book as I placed it in the box, but I didn’t come across it. I reorganized and repacked them several times but it wasn’t there. I had just about convinced myself it never existed and that my mom was right. Then I saw it. Sitting on the nightstand next to my grandmothers bed. My mother, who had paused her packing to lift her head and see what I needed, caught me staring at it. I was so captivated, my hand began to move towards it as if on its own. Quiet, but stern she said, “Don’t read the book. Not yet. We only read it when it’s our time.” “Well what’s it about?” I asked. “I don’t know. It’s not my time yet. All I know is, we don’t read the book.” I’d never heard my mother so serious before. Wordlessly she turned back to her task at hand, packing away clothes and trinkets. I didn’t ask further questions. Just accepted the new clue and the new mystery. The book was the last thing we packed from her house. Now it sits on a shelf in our house. Until it’s someone else’s turn to read it. I haven’t touched it yet. But I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t thought about what could be inside and what would happen if I read it early.