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.
