Burnt Secrets

You write a lot, don't you?

I look up. He nods towards my notebook, pages filled with scribbles, notes.

Yes, I say.

I pull the notebook closer to my chest, without thinking. It's just something I do, I say.

My friend takes another sip of coffee, then sets the cup down on the table between us. He has his feet up on the cafe seat, a suited man lying horizontal on a purple couch. He closes his eyes.

I watch him for a moment, fondly, and then pick up my pen again.

I write, he says, sometimes. Sometimes I need to write something down. But then afterwards I always tear it up.

I open my mouth, to say something. But I can't think of anything to say.

I close the notebook and sit back.

I'm remembering a documentary I saw. It was about the children in Beslan, who lived through the school shooting between the Chechnyan rebels and the Russian troops.

There was a boy, an eight year old boy. Too old for eight. He explains to the camera that he draws pictures, every day, of the Chechnyans. And then he burns them.

I remember how ceremonial it was. The drawing and the burning. He lit a candle and touched the paper to it, watching as the flames took hold and ate the pictures hungrily. There was something hungry about his face too.

I look back over at my friend, at his closed eyes, and I am not sure what I'm thinking. I feel uneasy. Burning and tearing.

Can you destroy secrets?

And what sort of secrets would they be?

I wonder about the burnt secrets that collect within people, like ash. I wonder if they ever go away.