SKELETONS As I age, I have started thinking about skeletons. Not my personal skeletons, which are hidden in Russian doll fashioned lock boxes at the very back and below the floor boards of my mental closet, they will never see the light of day again. I have taken them out, and shaken them, sometimes fleshing them out even, which is a hell of a dumb thing to do, many times over the years. I look at them, beat myself with the bad decisions, shame myself for the same, I cry sometimes, I even laugh sometimes. Every single time though I wear myself down with them. A few years ago I started questioning why I did this. Why did I need to revisit those errors in judgment, those innocent mistakes, those abuses, both from myself and from others? I can never change them. I can never alter my reactions to them at the time they joined the closet collection. They are just done, history, carved in stone. I have studied them enough. I have played them out a million different ways to ...