Recently, I ran into a woman
I hadn't seen since I was fat and happily married. “You look so wonderful,” she
chirped. “Really, you look marvelous; what are you doing? What kind of diet are
you on?”
“No diet,” I replied.
“Seriously, you have to be
doing something. You look so good.”
“My husband died last year. I've had no appetite.”
She knew he passed. I saw
her shortly after. Mourning will do that; she should understand. She sent me a
condolence, surely she knew why; didn't she? Sometimes I find it so difficult
to be sweet. Attempts to mask my pain fall short on me. I thanked her and
walked away.
This conversation opened the
door to my sorrow, so I sat on a ledge overlooking the ocean collecting my
thoughts.
A few years ago I saw a
friend some months after her husband died. She’d lost a lot of weight also. As
long as I’d known her, she’d been fat like me. I couldn't take my eyes off her.
She looked so little and fragile, somewhat broken. Behind wire rim glasses her
eyes looked huge, like a deer’s.
Never before had I seen her
as tiny and cute. My emotions conflicted between wanting to tell her how good
she looked and sadness for the lost little girl I saw. This dichotomy
disoriented me. She still attempted her standard: it’s no big deal, I have
everything under control persona.
Damn, it’s my turn on the
other side of that equation.
God, you give strange, yet wonderful
gifts. I’m still thanking you for that man you made to be my mate, and have
finally forgiven you for taking him away.
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