Hidden

"Hidden driveway" signs are incredibly misleading. Every time I see one, I half expect an invisible driveway just around the corner. Like something out of Harry Potter, it only appears to welcome the owners home, or wave goodbye when they're leaving. And yet, every time I see the driveway moments later, I'm disappointed by its stationary look and lack of magic. I've always wanted things to be hidden, to be magical. 

It started as a child. I was intrigued by the idea of hidden passageways and rooms that I read about in various mystery novels. Pull on a lever and POOF the bookshelf swings open to reveal a room full of valuable items and information. The excitement towards them grew when I saw the film Clue which had a hidden passage that connected the kitchen to the living room through various unknown hallways. I wanted to create my own somehow, dig a hole and build a structure in my walls so I had somewhere to hide, somewhere to sneak to and from. I vowed to have something like that when I got older. 

Time passed and I did, in fact age, yet always managed to not have a single hidden room. During my sophomore year of college my roommate John and I joked around about creating something like that - sealing off the room in our dingy apartment that we never used with a bookcase that only opened when a book was removed. A hidden hinge would allow that. Clearly, we never tried and even though I believed we could achieve such a feat, reality got the best of us. 

To my delight, I discovered a bar in downtown Orlando that did have such a feature. Once inside, visit the "Employees Only" room to see a small room with a single booth and a large bookshelf. Push the bookshelf aside to find a smaller, dark room with walls full of graffiti. "Don't ask, don't tell. The secrets die in here," black sharpies decorate the room with messages - both cryptic and graphic. At first I was floored by the idea that someone close by took my dream and made it a reality. Now, it's my favorite place to go downtown - it's comfortable.

Over a year ago, before moving into the townhouse, my grandfather gave me his old wooden desk that he rarely used. When cleaning off the dust and old stamps, I discovered that some adornments weren't just for show - they were drawers. And inside some drawers hid second sets of drawers. The dark brown antique desk had secret compartments. It was perfect - it was me.

After my grandfather passed away, I wasn't sure how to react. We weren't close, but he was family, my family. I wore the pearls he passed down to me from my great Aunt to feel close to him. I hid things in the desk's compartments because I knew he'd like that. He had never known about the secret parts until I told him. 

I didn't want to burden people with my grief so I held it in, mostly. When it all was too much, I exploded, burst into a thousand thoughts, and let them all out to my roommate. She listened, eagerly, always knowing that i'd come around eventually. 

In that sense, I'm kind of like the hidden driveways. I try to keep it all in, keep myself secret because that's what I grew up loving, but in the end, I'm visible, only a few inches away, waiting to say hello again.