When I was little, and not so little too, I always had a hiding place. Maybe it was being the third child, maybe I just liked hiding places. I'd find them or make them, some tiny, some comfortable, never elaborate, never far away, but more a bolt hole when there was no one there to send me for a time-out, I sent myself.
Drawn to books or art that portrays hiding places, I usually know one when I see one. Sometimes it is the most obvious thing, almost in plain sight, but invisible to most. Like Culebra.
Have a touch of tender Tuesday. Do something tellingly.