A calendar hangs over the hole I punched in the wall. It may seem an odd place for a calendar. Not many have been known to keep track of the months by the linen closet, but it proved to be a perfect place for a hole. I can’t see it anymore, the hole, but I know it’s still there. Like the beating of the Tell-Tale Heart, it mocks me from behind pictures of mountains, forests, and prairies. With each passing day, when I see the calendar I’m reminded of the hole. And I remember what caused the hole.
I hear that time heals all wounds, but it certainly doesn’t do drywall repair.