Last night, over pasta and frosted java, I recounted to two friends a not-so-happy heart story from my teenaged past. I figured I could retell the decade-old experience with detachment and even amusement.
I was wrong.
Time, after all, does not heal all wounds. There are wounds that Time can do nothing but anesthetize – and we can ignorantly mistake this respite from pain as healing. Until one day, without any warning, the numbness wears off and a disconcerting tingling heralds the return of a familiar ache.
It’s interesting how in our telling of old stories we hear our true selves, sometimes for the first time.