The Secret Room

drawing by Kevin Mizner
http://kmizner.com/ used with permission.

At the front of my Grandma’s house was a secret room. There was no way in.  No door. A huge shrub hugged the only outside window to the room. My eight year old self was curious. ” Why is there a room you can’t use?” To me it was the stuff mysteries were made of.  Was there a hidden treasure inside, stolen property being hidden from the authorities?  Had there been a crime committed in that room and the evidence boarded up?  My imagination ran wild  and I would often make up stories about the secret room.   I kept asking questions.  Finally, my mom explained that when the house was remodeled, they just closed it off because they didn’t need it anymore.   I didn’t believe it for a minute. A few times I tried to squeeze between the shrub and the grimy aperture, but I was too short to peer inside. I was confident  there was a story behind that dusty glass. There were other things regarding my grandparents that were secretive; events not discussed,things hushed so children would not know.  My grandparents lost a child to  a childhood disease.  She was just a toddler.  Years later a son was killed in a car accident shortly after returning home from the Korean War.  After the accident, my grandmother was gone for a while.  Even her absence was not spoken about when I was around.   A nervous breakdown.  A mental illness.   Shock treatments.  Comments overheard, but never explained. Together, the questions in my mind  made the secret room all the more enticing.  My conclusion was romantic and tender.  I was convinced that all the painful memories from the sadness in my grandparent’s lives were boxed up and stored in that room.   Baby clothes and blankets, a teddy bear, a ribbon from her hair, maybe even a lock of hair. Many years have passed.  My grandparent’s house shelters another family now.  There is no one left to ask about the secret room.

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