If

“You haven’t cared in over three years….”

The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.

A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow.   A corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.

Rising, I am vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before spitting, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.”  As I turn to walk away, candlelight flutters across ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.

If only I could have been a little quieter…

If only I didn’t have an opinion…

If I could hide my feelings…

If I could be a little less intelligent…

If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.

If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.

Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.

If I could have done that…

But, I couldn’t.

And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.

And now, even that, is not enough…


© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll