Where I Belonged

 

I stood with the other spectators, hot and sticky in the stagnant air of the gymnasium.  Programs waved in an effort to create a little movement of air which gave the illusion of cooling you off but actually only served to move the hot air around the room.  I wiped my sweaty palms downward on my purple suede skirt, oblivious to the fact that it would probably stain.  

I was trying to maintain my composure, trying to ignore the lead balloon in the pit of my stomach.  "I am not going to cry.  I am not going to cry."  It was difficult to be there but it would have been more difficult not to.  

The speeches droned on endlessly.  People were shuffling in their seats, waiting for their escape, waiting to see their son, daughter, niece, nephew, sister, brother or cousin walk across the stage and accept that piece of paper that signified the next chapter in their lives.  My mother wasn't there.  There was no need, her daughter wasn't graduating.

Finally, the time came for the graduates to walk across the stage, one by one, as their names were called.  I watched as my friends, wearing caps and gowns, accepted their diplomas with broad smiles of accomplishment and pride.

Still trying not to cry, I wallowed in self-pity even though my spectator status was entirely my own fault.  I could hold the tears no longer, though, as the theme song played.  

"Love lifts us up where we belong.  Where the Eagles fly, on the mountain high....."

I didn't belong here.  I belonged up there with my friends.  Some of them I had gone to elementary school with including my best friend since grade three but I had veered in another direction.  I dabbed at the corners of my eyes, trying not to blink so as not to smear my makeup, willing the song to end so I could escape the stifling gym.  

Mercifully, the song was over and the procession ended.  People started to shuffle out of the gym.  Head down, I weaved in and out of the throngs of people, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone.  I didn't want to see anyone that I knew, such as teachers or parents and siblings of friends.

I desperately wanted to escape the disdainful looks that said, "Loser.  I always knew you were bad news." Or worse yet, the pitying looks that said, "But you're such a smart girl, what went wrong?"

Finally, I made my way to the door and escaped into the late afternoon heat.  My legs carried me automatically to familiar territory - the smoke pit. I sat down on top of one of the worn picnic tables.  My legs dangling, I let my shoes fall to the ground.

I pulled out my package of king size Player's Light and removed one of the cigarettes.  I placed the cigarette in my mouth and flicked my lighter, inhaling deeply while closing my eyes.  

This is where I belonged.  This is what I deserved. 

A few more smoggers came to join me on my picnic table but before they did, I assembled the look.  You know, the "I don't give a shit that I didn't graduate because I am way too cool anyways look."

This post was inspired by this week's RemembeRED prompt over at the Red Dress Club:

It's that time of year...graduation.

For this week's prompt we are asking you to remember a graduation.  It doesn't have to be yours and it doesn't have to be high school

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Sun Goddess

As we reach the sand, I automatically discard my flip flops to walk barefoot.

“It’s not actually sand,” he says, “It’s ground coral.  That is why it’s not hot on your feet.”

“Really,” I replied.  I, myself, would never thought of this detail but he is forever logical. 

I sifted the ground coral between my French-manicured toes, luxuriating in the feel of it; warm, not hot.  We find a couple of lounge chairs near the edge of the sand close to the rocks and somewhat removed from the other resort guests.  We recline our chairs and ease into them, the warm ocean breeze pressing down upon us and the frosty, watered-down resort Pina Coladas within easy reach.

“You know,” he says in his logical voice, “This is an international resort and there are quite a few Europeans here.  I’ve noticed a lot more people smoking and some of the women are going topless on this beach.”  

He had been walking this morning while I lazed in bed, tired from the flight and the weeks of wedding planning.

“Hmm,” I say, already sinking into that lazy, sun-kissed stupor that is only achieved with that delicate balance of tropical sun and tropical rum, “What are you suggesting?”

“Well, I wasn’t suggesting anything but, now that you mention it, if you have ever wanted to go topless, now might be the time to try it,” he says, logically.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take any further prompting.  Why not?  I don’t know anybody here and we are far enough away from everyone else on the beach.

I reach to the back of my neck to undo the halter strap of my bikini top and then arch my back and reach behind me to undo the clasp.  I pull it away and drop the gauzy bit of fabric to the ground. Not too far.  I might need it in a hurry.

Then I lay back to bask in the warmth of the sun and the warmth of my husband’s gaze.  I have never before felt more at ease in my own skin as I do at this moment. 

I think, perhaps, he is a little shocked that I have actually removed my bikini top, but he goes with it.

“You are a goddess,” he says, illogically.

And truly, I feel like one.

This was the RemembeRED prompt over at The Red Dress Club:

So this week, we want you to write about sand.

Yes…sand.

It doesn’t have to be summer-related.

Watered Down Memories

The picture above is this week's  RemembeRED prompt over at the The Red Dress Club.  We were to write about a memory inspired by this picture.  I knew instantly that I would write about one of my earliest memories, one of those that I am not sure if the picture that I can see in my mind is derived from an old photo or from the actual memory.  I think I was around four years old.

It was a hot, summer afternoon and we had set up camp on the front lawn.  My mother had spread a nubby, chenille blanket out and her and her girlfriend were relaxing on the blanket while us kids played with the hose to cool off.  There were three of us: my sister and I as well as my mother's girlfriend's son.

We took turns squirting each other with the hose, squealing in delight and shock as the cold water hit our warm little bodies.  Over and over again, we would run towards the water anticipating the icy spray and then run away shrieking.

At some point, it occurred to me that it would be a lot more fun if the adults were involved.  With both of my tiny hands squeezing the nozzle as hard as could I pointed the hose in their direction.  My mother and her girlfriend sprung to their feet amidst shrieks of surprise and laughter.

It was a small yard so they had to run out the gate and onto the hot sidewalk to escape my watery assault.  I followed them as far as I could and with my waif-like little frame tugging determinedly on the hose, I was able to reach just past the gate to send the spray towards them.  The smell, like a warm summer rain, wafted up as the water hit the sidewalk.

By this time, I was giggling hysterically and in very real danger of wetting my pants but I was having far too much fun to stop.  Each time they made an attempt to come back in the yard, I stopped them with a spray of water.  I completely ignored my mother's suggestions that I stop and let them back in until about the third time when something in the tone of her voice told me that it really was time to give up the game.  My fun was over but the memory of the laughter and the wonderful sense of empowerment has stayed with me for decades.

 

Submitted to RemembeRED at the The Red Dress Club