PrivateLocker

Shaded cemetery. Afternoon hush. His gravestone looms. Cold granite etched with his name. I’m the old lady here. Wrinkled skin. Cane in one hand. Heart hammers. No one’s near. Birds chirp distant. Wind rustles leaves. My private locker— that mental vault where I bury the filthiest urges— strains. Locked for years. Since he died. Today,…