The huge cake sits forlorn on a conference room table.
The few faithful gather near as the room’s negative space grows heavy with expectation. The clock ticks. Phones are pulled from pockets and digital numbers document reality. The farewell party started ten minutes ago. No one speaks.
Until, “At least the weather is good for your last day!”
Nods all around from the fistful of suits.
A cascade of invitations has preceded this gathering. Another shoots now from the latest in hand held tech! The departing sycophant’s protector in action. Purchased loyalty repaid.
The cheap decorations call out to no one, clinging to the walls, embarrassed by their own vulgarity.
Echoes of our previous lives
Transplants take root, but the echoes of our previous lives live deep inside us.
I try to cover the tainted reverberations of small town youth with a gym body, fierceness, designer tennis shoes, and a biting wit – but the seed of discontent will always be with me. It lays dormant, unfed, and contained. I had convinced myself that it was dead forever, that I am now freed from past. Free from the pain of being different, shamed, hunted, and persecuted.