Your Past Doesn't Have to Be a Prison
But you have to tell a new story
It was the first time I can remember feeling ashamed.
The camp kitchen had a warped screen door that squealed on a creaky hinge every time the kitchen lady went in or out to have a smoke, take out the trash, or feed stale bread to the birds. It was coated with years of airborne bacon grease. She didn’t bother to use the…
