SUN-KISSED

In high school I was an easy target.

Small, frail and afraid. Utterly breakable.

A field day for bullies.

One afternoon during lunch

as I stood among friends outside the gymnasium

it entered our little circle like a comet.

Hurled by one of my tormentors, the orange

exploded on the side of my head.

Juice and rind sprayed everywhere.

I staggered to stay standing.

My comrades took hold of me

and hurried me to the bathroom.

What I saw there horrified me:

a face all red, eyes bloodshot,

hair a pulpy mess.

I was a gruesome sight.

Unrecognizable.

While washing, the image in the mirror

delivered this command:

Change your life, now!

Show them how big you really are.

I heeded the advice.

In a year’s time I turned a paltry frame

into a suit of armor 

by obsessively lifting weights 

and eating like a hungry ghost.

Brawny, twice my original size,

and as strong as a forklift,

no one dared to taunt or cross me ever again.

Bullies were fawning to be my friend.

You can add mass to anything, if you will it. 

This was what I learned that day

when the little ball of sunshine

smashed into my skull. All these years later 

my ears still ring with this lesson 

like a melody as familiar and as foreign

as the music of the spheres.