Dreamer

 

She just smiles and nods, that’s the best thing to do really, according to her, smile and nod.  The taunting has stopped; well it should at the age of 46 really.  They’re all tired of throwing candy, calling out derogatory remarks about her weight - nobody does that anymore.  Well that’s a lie, she thinks to herself.  There has been the odd occasion. 

She does not remember his name, but she asked if he needed anything, told him that she was just a button push away.  He was on the telephone talking to someone who mattered to him.  She walked by later and heard him telling someone on the phone, “I don’t remember her name, some big fat girl.”

His voice carried.

Everyone looked busy around the nurses’ station, a couple of people looked angry. 

She got busy in the kitchen cleaning up.  Being called fat didn’t bother her anymore but she hated the feeling of being fifteen again. 

The disappointed looks from her father, the pats on the back from her paternal grandfather, the disdain from her maternal grandfather and the avoidance of her brother; she didn’t mind, she knew being fat was socially unacceptable.  And yet…and yet, now at 46 when her brother hugged her in public, her grandfathers both dead and her father’s indifference, remembering makes the hurt worse.

Perhaps she thinks, perhaps because there is no changing it, no redemption, no time left to say, hey, I’m sorry I don’t look the part, but here, here is something you can be proud of me for, here it is, right here.

And nothing.

She cried when her grandfathers died.  She cried and cried and cried.  She dreams of dedicating a novel to their memories as she continues to write poetry and short stories that never pay.  She volunteers and continues to search the church for something significant.  Some will nod along with her, yeah, church the only thing you find there is judgment.  But she doesn’t agree, no she doesn’t.  It is worse than that because all she finds is striving. 

Striving people, who work hard, who work very hard, stressed into the dogma of believing that the way they live will make a difference in the after life.  She sees no freedom, she sees striving and no goal met.

She keeps going, just like she keeps volunteering; not for her, no not for her but for her son.  The one male she has met who seems to love her.  Yeah, sure he’s embarrassed of her too.  She need never try to dance, that horrified him.  It hurt, it really did, because no one was around, just her but he was horrified.  So she doesn’t dance by herself in the kitchen anymore.  She threw the fucking radio down the basement stairs and felt better, after he went to bed. 

So she keeps watching the striving, she is an audience for those who need an audience.  Those who look back at her and say, too bad you can’t join in.