Does anyone else… I wonder sometimes if I’m the only one who carried little, almost imperceptible habits, from childhood into old age. Not the big, obvious ones, mind you, like a fear of abandonment or a lifelong struggle with self-esteem, though I certainly had my share of those too, didn’t we all? No, I’m thinking of the… the minutiae. The small, secretive rituals. Because I remember, with a clarity that still surprises me after all these decades, hiding things under my mattress. Not secrets, not then. Just… evidence. My parents, bless their hearts, were… particular. My mother, in particular, was quite fixated on what she called "optimal physiological functioning." Which, in practical terms, meant bland meals, early bedtimes, and absolutely no "empty calories." My father just went along with it, mostly, nodding sagely when she’d launch into one of her monologues about gut flora or the detrimental effects of refined sugars on the developing brain. We lived out here, you know, just past the county line, and there wasn’t much to do. So my escape, my true freedom, was late at night, in the glow of the television – back then it was a small black and white set my uncle gave us, tucked away in my room – playing whatever console games I could get my hands on. It felt like another world entirely, so much more vibrant than our dusty little farm. And with those late-night sessions, naturally, came the… accoutrements. A sugary soda, fizzy and cold, a chocolate bar, maybe some of those artificially flavored crisps that would stain your fingers yellow. Pure bliss, each forbidden bite. But then, the packaging. Oh, the packaging. My mother, she had an almost supernatural ability to sniff out anything that deviated from her strict regimen. A wrapper left on a bedside table? Unthinkable. A can in the wastebasket? A cardinal sin. So, under the mattress they’d go. Flattened energy drink cans, sticky candy wrappers, sometimes even a crumpled comic book that wasn't approved reading material. A small, expanding trove of adolescent rebellion, pressed flat beneath the weight of my sleeping body. I’m 78 now, and I still find myself… tucking things away. Little things, mind you. A candy wrapper from a secret treat I bought in town, a receipt for something frivolous I wouldn’t want Martha, my neighbor, to comment on. It’s not that I have to, not anymore. There's no one here to disapprove. My parents are long gone, God rest their souls, and the house is quiet. But that instinct, that almost automatic movement of hand to mattress, or to the back of a drawer, a hidden corner… it's still there. It’s like a neurological pathway, etched deep, a conditioned response. Anyone else ever feel that? That echo of a childhood transgression, still playing out, decades later? It’s not a big deal, I know. It's just… a curious persistence. A little piece of that frightened, defiant boy, still making sure his secrets are safely out of sight. Sometimes I pull out one of the old photo albums, dusty now, and I see myself, a skinny kid with wide eyes, and I remember the distinct smell of stale sugar and metallic soda, wafting faintly from beneath the mattress. A strange kind of melancholia, I suppose. A quiet rumination on how the seemingly insignificant can linger, a low hum beneath the surface of all the years.