Tiptoes

Shoes on, I grab my recycling.

Hang it on my walker,

lock my door.

Hair curled. Black, white, & tan dress.

Confident,

I walk out & turn the corner.

wait

let a little girl in a swimsuit pass

With her dad.

She stops, looks me up & down,

Two or three times.

“What is that?”

Her eyes point

to my electric-blue walker.

It helps me walk, I tell her.

“So there’s no seat on it?”

Her head bends to the right.

To get a view of my behind.

Dad gets nervous, & calls her name,

It’s a “come on, honey, don’t be rude.”

Tone of voice.

I smile.

She continues,

“Why do you walk on your tiptoes?”

I improvise, how to tell a 7 year old?

“It’s because my muscles don’t work right.

And I wasn’t really paying attention.

You reminded me though.

So thanks. “

She meekly replies,

“You’re welcome.”

We part with,

Have a great weekend.

Dad keeps thinking,

It is embarrassing,

I can tell,

He is ashamed.

But I am proud of that girl.

She didn’t accept whatever she’d heard.

She sought information,

from a primary source.

And learned,

I am not scary.

Not weird.

I am a nice lady.

Published by sickybeat

I am a writer with an extremely active imagination. I love learning answers to questions and what makes everything and everyone tick. I am a "Unique case, medically" if nothing else. I am flawed in my extreme aversion to failure (even when "success" isn't good for me,) but have come a long way in ditching the perfectionist mindset. I like people whose default setting toward others is compassion, an open mind, and honesty

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