If treasure hunters were to dig along the north banks of the Monogahela River, they would find dozens of what my childhood friend Verona and I called "secrets." I spent hours in the summers with Verona building secrets. After breakfast every morning, Mother would part my hair and pull it into two tight braids with Vaseline on her hands. I would run across the street, my head still throbbing inside my tight hair, and meet Verona on the corner and we ran the three blocks to the river.
     I was a skinny thing in my sandals,long legs sticking out of a skirt that was already too short for me. Verona was six years older than me, but we were close like sisters. At the river, we would dig a hole in a new spot each time, digging with our hands or with sticks. We would then wander the bank searching for emerald green moss, pieces of broken glass and pretty rocks.
     We placed the moss at the bottom of the hole, like a beautiful green carpet. Then squatting or lying on our stomachs, we made a mosaic-like puzzle on top of the moss with our glass, rocks, and other treasures. When we were happy with our work, we both stood over it, and I would exclaim, "It's our best one ever." After which, we covered them up—that's why we called them secrets.

     Only now, at the age of 71, am I beginning to see the symbolism in this act. Our Secrets are like the many perfect and imperfect moments that make up my life story. Except that they are buried in my memory where they have been safe from the judgement and weather of the world. I suppose the process of autobiography is like digging up old treasure.
     But like Verona and I never made treasure maps, I also have to trust my memory. As I tell my story, there are obviously some places I have forgotten, and others I may spend too much time admiring, but it's time for my "secrets" to be uncovered.