Now imagine yourself sitting at a table and all around you are the people who do not know, not truly, and they judge. They always do. But at this moment, they pass half-thought judgments on me and you are holding a gavel, like the rest of them.
I am sure they have talked (you along with them) and they know a side of a story, just one, perhaps two? But we all know stories are multi-faceted. I can feel the imaginary burn of all your eyes, you, people who are dear to someone else who, in turn is dear to me. And I miss this someone. So here we are at the imaginary event, a wedding, someone’s wedding.
Stop. I am not a scorned lover. I am family and circumstances have made things ever strange between myself and someone. I wonder if one of us is aware of the size of the elephant in our midst. I doubt it.
Wait! A table, we are sitting at a table and you are judging me as good friends (not mine, in this case) are wont to do.
But I do not rise to explain to you, semi-stranger, to make you see reason would be futile. You are not my friend. You are someone’s, and I am glad you are there. Although your disdain stings, I don’t owe you anything. You are not involved. The matter is a family’s business as most things are in this, my address to you. So not another word on this private thing, not even in this imaginary conversation we are having.
Four weeks. I’ve been sitting on this decision for a month and much as I’d like to be there, they will be there and I can’t stomach it. There are so many things that are wrong with this world, and they live and breathe it. But what makes it worse, far worse is that they do not know. Or maybe they do? I wouldn’t put it pass them. They are self-righteous and arrogant and ignorant and narrow-minded. They polish shit and sit it on a pedestal, their pedestal. The truth is maligned by their hands, as they have created a monster from the truth’s limbs and organs, all of their choosing. Their “truth” is not at all truth.
I feel my eyes prick with tears of frustration. They are heavy murky things sitting behind the flesh of my face. They bulge and crawl, and my skin is bursting at the seams with anger and hurt and disgust.
But I will rein in these putrid feelings. They are not for someone, after all. Neither are they for you, biased friend. So I shall latch a mask come the real day.
The honest smile will shine through for someone, the tears will be of joy for someone.
Your little jabs may be unintended. But I am not immune to it, I must confess. You know nothing of what has happened and of what is there – or now may no longer be there between someone and I. On that day, someone’s day, it won’t matter.
When that day comes, we will not even be sharing a table, you and I.