Falling Short
Steam from a passing train funnel
wrapped under and over the footbridge
like regret around a jilted lover.
We were walking home from school
(people walked places, then).
Afternoon sun was glittering
on the maturing wayside grass,
tall and feathery.
Term was ending.
I was leaving primary behind.
The "big school" loomed.
Just then, Tiddler came up.
"Good afternoon, David,"
said my mother. I hadn't known
Tiddler's actual name, ere this.
Tiny, fine-boned, frail,
he was in some way underformed.
Some mysterious brush with something
grown-ups, hushed, named "diphtheria".
"What's that, Tiddler?" ventured I.
His end-of-year school photo.
He proffered it, reluctantly.
My raucous guffaw split the air.
I don't remember handing it back -
just my mother's voice,
softened by sadness.
I'd let her down.
"Do you suppose," she said,
once he was safely out of earshot,
"he wants to look the way he does?"
I was already burning with shame.
"He'll show that picture
to his mother, and she won't see
the defects that you find so funny.
She'll see a little prince."
I watched his skinny legs,
trotting on ahead,
felt acid tears etch my cheeks.
There was more to this being big
than simply being big.
I wanted to hold him in my own arms,
and tell him how handsome he was.
Or even just refer to him as David.
But he trotted on,
his image guarded tightly
under one withered arm.
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