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Behind my closed eyelids I see you take your triad of steps. The squeaking of your shoes on the linoleum sounds deafening to my ears. You’re tensing up now, right? Just like you put a fork into an electric socket? Now it’ll be time for your arms to stretch out behind you, awkward and gangly. Flap, flap, flap goes those hands – but you won’t fly anywhere. You’re my flightless Dodo bird.

Should I see if I was right? Should I open my eyes? Ah, I was. You’re starting it all over again now, like a CD with a scratch. Please don’t on my account – I know this dance so well I see it in my dreams.

Step, step, step. Tense. Flap, flap, flap.

It’s as if we are alone on an empty stage and you’re saying the wrong lines, doing the wrong moves – whilst the audience just watches in silence, shifting in their seats, giving each other thin smiles and apologetic eyes. They know it, and I know it. But nothing is said, and I stand on the perimeter of your spotlight as you just carry on in blissful ignorance. In those moments, on that stage, I feel an invisible hand reach on into my chest and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. I curl in on myself, hunch my shoulders, trying to crush that guilty hand, push it down, down, down. But it won’t work.

You’re so cute, with those mahogany eyes and soft curls in your hair. If you weren’t doing your dance, no one would notice you. You would be invisible, a tree swaying in the background, just filling in the space - like me. But instead you do this and people stare. See? We have our very own audience right now. You see that child behind us? Standing perfectly still but wide eyed? He’s fascinated by your rarity, my Dodo bird. His mother stares too, and her stare is not filled with wonder. But you don’t care, because she doesn’t matter, does she? Only the dance matters.

Step, step, step. Tense. Flap, flap, flap.

Look at her, the Mother of the Year whose son has no dance.  Look at how those condescending eyebrows of hers are pulled together. Why that downward turn in her mouth, do you think? Is it curiosity? Is she feeling lucky, with that perfect boy of hers, standing so still?  Or do you think she’s feeling sorry for us? Oh! Did you see how she just gripped his shoulder like that? Now see the way she pulls that shopping basket close to her chest? I think she’s scared of you, my Dodo bird. Perhaps she thinks your act is catching.

Step, step, step. Tense. Flap, flap, flap.

Uh-oh, Mum sees me staring at our audience. I’ll pretend to be interested in Bradjelina - nothing to see here, Mum, nothing at all. I sneak a look. Ah! Too late, those little muscles in her jaw have all clenched up, her neck gaining five centimetres in height as she straightens up those shoulders. Oh, and there it is, the sucking-on-a-lemon grimace. Look, she’s staring at the woman now, carved out of stone. Wait for it - take a photo, it’ll last longer. Mother of the year looks away, cheeks flaming and mutters something incoherent.  I look at the chocolate. What do you do?

Step, step, step. Tense. Flap, flap, flap.

Mum looks back to our cue, still made of stone – except those little muscles in her jaw. They jump and jump and jump. The old lady is finished now, so it’s our turn. I look at Bradjelina, unseeing. Mum isn’t embarrassed, not like me.  She doesn’t care about your dance, your spotlight, or your wrong lines. It’s their problem, she tells me, not ours. I know I should be carved out of stone as well - no amount of storms and winds should be able to tear me down. But I’m no stone, I’m a dandelion. A slight breeze can rip me apart.

Beep.

You cover your ears, because you don’t like the sound of the grocery girl scanning our food. I am grateful, I suppose, because it interrupts your dance. Mum tells you it’s alright, just the items scanning - won’t be long at all. Did you hear her? Because you’re looking at the ground so she can’t tell. You need to improve your acting, my Dodo bird, because I know how much a mistaken glance would mean to Mum. But that isn’t something you will concern yourself with, is it?

Ah, right on cue. If you’re not dancing, you’re singing isn’t that right, my Dodo bird? That monotonous whine makes the invisible hand become primed and ready against my rib cage, waiting for its moment to sink in its scathing nails. It is a quiet whine now, but soon it’ll turn into a howl. Then everyone else will be sticking their fingers in their ears - just like you are now.

Beep.

The shop girl is looking anywhere but at you, but don’t mistake that to mean you are a swaying tree in the background, my Dodo bird. She’s the kind of audience that will pretend to be texting in the middle of the scene. She thinks that by ignoring you, she isn’t as bad as the Mother of the Year and her eyes of judgement. But she’s worse really, because her ignoring is her ignorance.  

You can learn new lines, can’t you, my Dodo bird? Like when you learnt to poop in the toilet. Mum had a party because of that achievement. We had pizza, I had wanted Chinese but we couldn’t have it because you hate the boxes they come in – too shiny, Mum reckons. Besides, it was your party. You took a dump in a toilet and you’re eight years old and you get a party. I got excellence in three of my exams and I got a ‘good job’ and a ‘my clever girl’.

Beep.

Don’t worry about it too much, my Dodo bird, no need to whine so loud. I don’t have parties anyway. Because how would I explain the singing and dancing to people? They wouldn’t be able to turn away from your spotlight, and then I would have to see their faces, split between awkward humour and apologetic ignorance. Did you know that my classmates say things like ‘you’re so retarded’ when someone makes a fool out of themselves? They say it with smiles and a laugh and I hunch my shoulders and sew my lips together and make the corners of my mouth turn up. Ha, ha, ha. Yes. Very funny. I’m a puppet with strings, watch me move.

But when they aren’t looking I will think of you and then that hand reaches on in and gives a squeeze.  The owner of that invisible hand whispers that I’m a bad sister, and I am - aren’t I? But I don’t think you care or notice – caught up in the limelight as you are. Sometimes your eyes might go in my general direction, but you never see me - not really. Your spotlight is too blinding.

Beep.

Uh-oh, that whine of yours is gaining volume. Almost there, Mum says. See that little muscle of hers jump, jump, jump? You’re making her nervous. You’re twelve now and you’re getting big. You only need to see the hole in the living room wall to know that. She’s only concerned with finishing the show and going home. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I interrupted the scene. Perhaps I would scream and scream and scream until the audiences ears started bleeding – perhaps she would look and think ‘oh yes, that’s right – I have a daughter too. What an excellent performance she is doing’.

Beep.

Not that we don’t ever go out, I suppose. Remember that time we went to the movies? The one with the dinosaurs? We only got to see the first ten minutes, because you began screaming and kicking the seat in front of you. It was too noisy. Mum had thought that the popcorn would keep you happy. But it didn’t. The man whose seat you kicked didn’t appreciate your performance. He hadn’t realised you were...special. Because you don’t look special...at least not until you start doing your dancing and singing.  Mum had to drag you off by throwing you over her shoulder. I had pretended to tie my shoe lace so that I could walk a few steps behind you - oh and how that invisible hand had squeezed when Mum turned and looked at me with that stony gaze of hers. I was certain that my heart was just going to explode in a bloody mess all over those shiny floors. I think she would notice that, wouldn’t she? You know what I really want, my Dodo bird? Even more than a party and even more than a smile from Mum? I want my own play, with my own audience, with my own spotlight.

You had bruised Mum’s collarbone that day at the movies, did you know? She had cried that night. She doesn’t think I know, she doesn’t think I hear – but I do. The walls are thin, I could hear that little hiccup sob of hers, the one where it sounds like she swallowed a golf ball and the air can’t get around it. I could also hear her arguing with Dad, before he left. It was about you, did you know that? I think sometimes she wants her own spotlight too.

Beep.

Look, all finished! Have a nice day, say’s the shopping girl. She looks rather relieved, don’t you think? Have to admit, I’m a little relieved too. The show is almost over, only the encore to go. Then we will be safely tucked in at home where no one can see your performance.

 Out the front door, the cool air is like an embrace.

I see that you are already trying to get into the shopping bag. You’re nothing if not consistent, aren’t you my Dodo bird? Mum knows what you’re looking for and reaches in to grab it. Of course, the jelly beans. You try to open it, pulling at the middle. Mum’s busy hunting for her keys and doesn’t notice and I’m thinking about leaving you to struggle. Bad sister, whispers that invisible hand as it digs in its nails. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Fine -  here you go, all open! You shake the bag above your hand, and eventually one falls onto your palm. Oh no, it’s yellow. Yellow isn’t the good one, is it? Mum sees. Better give that one to me, she say's, reaching out. But you jerk it away with that particular grunt. That’s a no grunt, isn’t it? I look behind me, Mother of the Year is marching her son quickly across the parking lot. Hold it together, my Dodo bird, because we’re almost to the car now, then you can go home and kick and scream and try to fly away where no one can see you.

But then you hold out the yellow jelly bean, those beautiful vacant mahogany eyes staring somewhere at my stomach region.

Sam.

You say my name, or at least I think you do. It must be my name, because though that left hand flaps behind your back redundantly, you’re holding your right one out to me, the yellow jelly bean sitting transcendently in your palm. I look at Mum who has an oddly watery glint in her eyes. I reach out, hesitate, and take it off your palm.

You return to your jelly bean packet and this time you’ve got a red one. You pop it in to your mouth and start making your way to the car.

Step, step, step. Tense. Flap, flap, flap.

I smile. Then I call out, not certain you will hear, and not certain you will care.

Thank you, James.

Impressum

Texte: Stephanie Wilson
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.08.2013

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