What's Behind the Curtain?

I long to see what is behind this curtain in my mind. 

It hangs dark and dusty and covers one whole wall. 

Heavy deep red brocade, yards and yards of it.

I am curious and frigtened. 

Do I have the courage to peek?

Do I have the fortitude to keep looking?

Is this fear because I have a premonition 

or just fear because it is the unknown and because I can only go alone?  

When I was a child in the Shriner’s Hospital in Portland, Oregon, I lived in a ward of girls who were between the ages of 11 and 16.  They called it the ‘Big Girls’ Ward.’ The ‘Little Girls’ Ward’ was down the hall and around the corner and had girls who were babies to 10 years old. 

In my ward, when a bed had a curtain pulled around it, that usually meant that the girl cordoned off was having some kind of procedure done that needed a bit of privacy. Either privacy for her, or sheltering the rest of us from what was being done to her. 

For instance one night, my friend was scheduled for surgery, the next morning, so  she had to have a blood sample taken. I never understood why, I just knew that when you are scheduled for surgery, the night before you would hear, “clink, clink tinkle, tink,” coming down the hallway and a woman dressed like a nurse would push her wheeled cart of little glass bottles and test tubes ahead of her into our ward. This particular night, she was headed to my friend’s side who was two beds down (an empty bed between us).  The curtain was pulled with a brisk swish, to block my view.  Low talking and then quiet.  

After a short while, I could hear whimpering and “now, now, it’s ok.”  Knowing it was NOT ok, if my friend was crying.  I began to imagine all kinds of awful bloody things.  In the end, a man doctor-type came into the ward and the other two curtains were pulled around my friend's bed, blocking her from all possible view on all sides. The whimpers became real crying and then screams.  I discovered later that my friend had veins that were almost impossible to find and to puncture, with a needle. This made getting a sample of blood a  traumatic experience for her. They ended up taking it from her ankle after trying almost every other option on her body. 

So, as you can see, in this case, I was as helpless as my friend. The curtain could shield neither one of us, even a little bit, from the pain. 

The question remains.   Now, these long years later, 
am I hiding behind the curtain or is something hiding from me? 

Come out, come out, whatever/whomever you are.

Slowly, the words leak out from under, around and through the old, dusty, heavy curtains. It is an absorbing ritual, this coming right up to the closed curtain, day after day. 

I meet myself, to see what is here today. 

I live in hopes that one day the curtain will be thrown back to reveal some secrets. 

Maybe the barrier needs to be cut down, removed, cleaned, and made much, much smaller.  I am not blind to the possibilities.  I know that there are many words to find here and pictures to see. 

If I don’t look, I will never see. 

If I want to be a writer, I must write.  

It is not lack of courage that will prevent me finding the answers behind the curtain.

It is more likely that it is fear that one day it will all be right out there in front of me.