The small lies we make for ourselves to get us by, to see us through the day stay with us long past the reason for them and there will always be someone close to expose us over dinner in the company of strangers when there is nothing even to be gained by it anymore but the moment’s wit and satisfaction, the personal and reminding shame. We’ve learned: We have no special gift or secrets. The lies we tell ourselves are the same as any others’. We can’t run forever from our ghosts. But still we punish ourselves for years live out our lives in the shadow of our own remembering telling our stories any way we can long after life has forgotten or forgiven us because of it.