The field is a glistening jewel that at once absorbs and radiates the hot white lights. There are so many, they should overwhelm anything in the beams’ paths. Instead those touched feed off them, are elevated. The players, clothed in bright colors that reflect their prowess, grab the rays and shoot them up and down the field. The crowd screams and roars. The lights respond changing hues in time with the music that rocks through the stands and into the concourse.
The pounding rhythms pulls my soul through my chest, the bright hope floods my eyes and I lean towards it. “Now. Now,” I say – barely a whisper underneath my quickening breath. “Go!” I take a step. Then another.
Against my will, a smile begins to unfold across my face. I can’t help it – the field, the promise is so close. To frolic and shine. Just a few more steps…
A person rushes past, bumping me hard against the painted concrete wall. Then another. And another. They leap through the stands as the cheering crowd lifts them onto the field.
I shrink back to where I belong. The one place I don’t want to be. My shoulder that was slammed into the wall aches. The last time it was my head. I should be grateful.
I’m not. I never am. I let the ache grow into searing hot stabs that radiate through my body. Maybe I’ll remember this. Maybe next time I will know better.
The fans’ cheers have become muffled, yet I can still feel their energy in my chest telling me of great and joyous feats I can no longer see. I want to take a deep breath so I can sigh out the last bit of hope, but I can’t. I never liked the stench of this place no matter how hard I scrub the walls, its garish light exposing flaws.
“Excuse me, but this stall is out of toilet paper,” an annoyed woman says. A fan. She struggles to be polite.
I should be grateful for the effort.
I grab a couple of rolls from my cart and go through the motions of replacing the necessity. Someone has to.
I feel the tears welling up again making a mad dash past my throat, looking to escape through my eyes. I shut my lids forcing their retreat back down one by one into my soul. After a few short moments I open them. My pupils are dry.
“There you go, ma’am,” I say with deadpan cheerfulness.
The woman doesn’t bother thanking me and she slams the door shut.
I return to my cart and see the notebook with the pen firmly attached to its spiral. I pick it up and flip through the pages. So many words. So many years. I walk towards the garbage can, resolved this time to toss it in, maybe even page by page. Tearing through it. Dream by dream.
I turn away and quietly place the notebook back in my cart, covering it with the only clean rag left.
The pain widens the crack in my heart. Tears mixed in with my blood slowly make their escape. Drop by drop.
