Billy

His obituary was in the newspaper today. I had not thought of him in ages, yet he was always in a nest in my heart. Tears occupied my eyes as I did an old lady’s routine for morning. I knew he was my age, but his gorgeous, youthful face sang in my memory. A young girl’s senior year of high school was defined by a boy who drove a long pink Cadillac convertible through an early spring heat...he and his friends shirt less and teasing. There was no hope for a chubby girl who had to sew her own clothes and was frumpy as a grandma. My mother left us when I was four - years old. My father was taciturn man with a mean temper, a heavy fist and a hatred for females. He was a hard-working man, but never an affectionate man. He doted on my brother and I was simply a burden he had to bear. We lived in a shotgun house on the corner by a small group of stores that have since morphed into a mini-mall. Billy Dean lived on the street across from us. But we had a hovel and he lived in a respectable part of the neighborhood. It was one of those strange juxtapositions of life where rich and poor were divided by a mere jump of a sidewalk. Quiet and without social skills, I did manage to fall into a group of girls who were equally outsiders. They knew of my crush on Billy and squealed with me when we discovered I would be in the same art class with my crush. The art teacher was John Ruxfeld and he became my surrogate father, finding me worthy of attention. He once said, “Sarah, you are like a tube of toothpaste...” I wasn’t sure whether to cry, so I asked him what he meant. His answer was, “No matter how hard you are squeezed, there is always a drop more patience to be had...” I knew everyone made fun of me, yet those people on the edge were kind in their own way. My Speech Class was taught by a wonderful woman who helped a clutch of girls to take up donations and buy me few new things. Though my gratitude has not faded, I did not ever want to be someone’s charity case again. Life scribbles its own tale on our tablets. After a hectic and roller-coaster life, I now must accept the diorama of being a crippled old woman dependant upon SS this and SS that, to sustain me. In those brazen moments when life is a branding iron searing my soul, I let my soul float on clouds of memory and dear Billy drives me in that pink convertible. I know that many who peopled my life back then are now names on grave markers. Others, like me are waiting. One by one we will blink out and become winking stars. Dear Billy, rest well.