I see him. Sidewalks. Grocery stores. Big Lots. Target. A squat, happy nebula spinning around a solid core based on an attitude of gratitude and a sense of family. He doesn't care how fat he is. He loves the idea of sitting down to a great home-cooked meal. Extra cheese please. He doesn't fret his corpulent body into anorexia. Holding his kid's hand they cross the street, albeit one of the ugliest intersections in town at Rose and Lincoln. I see their happy laughing faces.
My therapist says there are people out there that get up and go to work at a normal 9-5 job. Then they actually come home, play with the kids and eat dinner. Only to cap off the night with a rousing two hours of television. And they are happy. I envy them. Their sense of community and history and shared struggles. Their laughter and joy. Their gleaming perfect white teeth.
Except for the teeth it's the life I had growing up. The green house with neat white trim. Wild fields to play in until dinner then back outside in the summers and in front of the television and fireplace in the winters. Back when it was impossible to visualize the end of summer vacations when school let out, and an all-nighter meant unable to sleep Christmas Eve knowing a fat, jolly man in a red suite would soon tip-toe into my bedroom, filling my stocking full of amazing little gifts that would keep me busy until mom and dad could get up.
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