Shame is a mask

A glowering cedar mask – maybe Haida in origin – hung in my father’s den,┬áthe colours vibrant even after decades spent outside. Its hollow interior was rough with hair-like fibres that scraped me when I tried to heft and hold it in front of my face. I thought if I could get inside it, I could hide from the empty eyes that followed me everywhere. My mother yelled at me to put it down. I think it scared her when I disappeared inside the over-sized features, my eyes blinking through the holes, like a peeping Tom. Continue reading

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