Abandoned gas station waiting for a match, or a winning lottery ticket, or forgiveness. Or something. What a waste. The bowling alley is still there, and the dance hall, the place where I sashayed across the hardwood floor to Dancing Queen because back then I was young and sweet, only 13, and I remember my Dad giving me a dirty look, embarrassed that his daughter was making an ass of herself. I shimmered under the rented showbiz lights, my secondhand blouse showing cleavage that didn't exist as I twirled with the enthusiasm only a self-obsessed adolescent can muster. I didn't care what Dad thought. I shouldn't care now but I'm uncomfortable, remembering, seeing myself through his eyes. He's dead. I'm old. My knees are too creaky for dancing and besides, I'm too fat. One turn around the dance floor and I'd probably fall to the ground clutching my exploding heart. I am sure a heart attack will find me soon. It's waiting for me around the curve of every doughnut. Is it my time? Is it carrying the wood that's gonna do it? Or this snow shovel? Or this dance?
I wait for the light to turn green at the intersection where I was young.
I'm taking part in the A to Z Blogging Challenge for the month of April. For more information, click here.