When I was a kid, I told myself that I would only be truthful.
It was the truth when I told the story about the pencils that were lost. They were there on my desk but when I returned, it wasn’t there. They said it was a lie. I knew it wasn’t.
Two days later, my wallet had been stolen. It went on for days. I wasn’t able to eat lunches. They said I was on a diet. How could one be on a diet at six? They said it was a lie. I knew it wasn’t.
And then, he came. He was a funny, young man, they said. He had iron grey hair and chinky eyes. He spoke so softly that I couldn’t hear what he’s saying. Still, you treated him as a friend. He invited me to visit his house often. He had a little sister, he said. He also liked video games, too.
It was all too good.
I wasn’t sure he was a lie so I told myself he wasn’t.
“You have a great smile, kid,” he used to say. I didn’t know what smile he meant. I only knew I was smiling the whole time playing video games with his sister, picking flowers in our garden and running around with our dog in the yard.
“Mom, he told me I had a great smile.”
She said it was probably a lie. But I knew, it wasn’t.
Until his smile was no more than a façade. “You have a great smile, kid,” he turned as I walked into his room. There were pictures all around the walls—faces of people I don’t even know about. They were there, smiling, the way he always does. Each face was plastered with same kind of irony that they always said: We aren’t lies. But you refuse to see that we aren’t.
I panicked.
He pushed and I fought for dear life.
I fell back. He smiled.
This was a lie. But I told you it wasn’t.
--
We, children, never lie.
But you refuse to accept that we don’t.
Every truth is bared before you but you chose to think otherwise. I am in debt to myself for the truthful things I told you. They were there—bare naked but they stand before you, helpless.
But they are lies, though I told you they weren’t.
And now, he lies, six feet underground, rotting under the mounds of earth. He was lying alright but you didn’t care. You could have asked him and believed me. But alas, you didn’t.
--
When I was a kid, I told myself that I would only be truthful.
But now, I’m all grown up. I have a degree, a house and family of my own.
Then, you called me in the middle of the night, and in a feeble voice, said:
“I’m about to die.”
“Is that a lie?”
You said, it wasn’t.
Right then, I swore, it was the best lie I’ve heard.
