Secrets, Secrets, Are No Fun

Secrets, Secrets, Are No Fun

 I woke up feeling the then all too familiar urge. I had secrets to tell, and I knew just what to do with them. 

The first time I ever engaged in my ritual, it was all speculation; heard through the screams of wind in the nastiest storms, and the symphony of frogs and crickets on the most peaceful nights. A local legend told through the mouth of mother nature.  I heard that, maybe, there might be a way to tell my secrets, without anyone having to know.

By this time, I had been doing it for years. I knew the routine. To the grocery store: Jarred marshmallow fluff, pure vanilla extract, cocoa powder. The perfect combination of high-end and trashy for the beloved Pasco County.

Back at home, I was methodical; almost surgical. Measuring in grams, not cups. The same steps as every other time. The recipe was almost memorized, hardly checking my recipe book at all. The cookie crusts were hot, waiting in the oven to fulfill their purpose. The frosting, fluffy, sticky, and sickly sweet, was the last thing to be made. Standing over my stand mixer, a gift since I had been baking so much lately, I felt in control. I whispered sweet somethings into the concoction. One enormous secret for my sweet little moon pie, that no one else would ever hear. 

Wrapped carefully, I packed my pie into a basket,  Final destination: my backyard. Into the thin strip of swampy woods surrounding the creek, a tiny unnamed offshoot of the Pithlachascotee River. The sun shone through the trees and beat down on me, through the nauseating Southern heat. I could feel the stickiness on my skin, tiny bugs landing and quickly flying away again as I entered. A few steps into the damp trees, just barely out of sight of the neighborhood, stood a small structure made of forgotten things. Old bricks and leftover wood from the side of the road, just small enough to kneel upon. Fit with a tea candle and lighter, a whittled stick, a pocket knife and chalk. Upon my altar, I carefully unwrapped my moon pie, careful not to break its fragile body. I placed it in the center, on a piece of broken concrete, a faded, miserable looking blue and orange scheme from the chalk I used before the last storm.