He stirred from slumber, and gazed out the window. He was mesmerized by the stars and how they lit the sky, Like a midnight disco ball. He’d had the most wonderful dreams. There had been so much color and madness, Laughing and dancing, glitter and music, And no sports.
He straightened his football blankets, and wondered if daddy slept. He drifted back into the dreams Of music and life, Boys who wore makeup And girls who shined like diamonds.
The next morning, as the light spilled in To chase away his dreams, He heard “Shoot some hoops, sport?” And was suddenly filled with sorrow.
He played sports for hours, Being the golden boy he knew he was supposed to be. All the while he daydreamed Of climbing the stairs, And wearing mother’s dresses.
When father went to work He climbed the winding staircase, He entered mother’s room, Which had long since been hers alone. Father slept in another room now.
He took out her box, Covered in pink laces, With a black bow sealing it shut. He pulled the bow loose, And took out her lipstick.
He painted on a smile he didn’t have to force, He danced in shoes that were a few sizes too small, And his heart swelled with joy Because he was finally out of costume.
He heard an unexpected sound. He stopped dancing, and was already undoing the buttons. His blood ran cold and his heart thundered. He’d recognize those thuddy footsteps anywhere.
“Sport!” he heard. “Yeah, dad?” He bellowed, sounding casual. He knew the role he was suppose to play. “Want to play some football? I’ve decided to take the day off.”
His heart sank as he removed the shoes. His eyes filled with tears as he carefully retied her bow. He let out a sigh as he walked toward the door, Grabbing his letterman on his way down the stairs.
Part 2: Mother
He hated misconception. It made it all the more difficult to be anything other than the star quarterback.
If any of his friends knew that when the house was empty he danced in glitter and painted his eyes they'd never speak to him again.
What would daddy say if he knew that after practice Sport would tip toe into mother's room and try on her high heels.
What if daddy knew that Sport wore panty-hose and danced in mother's dresses when he was alone.
He took of his jacket, and wondered if his father was home. He checked each room carefully, to make sure he was alone.
He walked into his favorite room, across from his own and covered in fancy blankets and curtains.
He took out the box, that belonged to her, covered in pink laces with a black bow on top.
The box of pandora, he thought. Releasing the thoughts within my head, the music and laughter I long to breathe in.
He lined his eyes, with the hands of a surgeon. He brushed his lashes with an onyx paint.
He rubbed the rouge upon his cheeks, and slid the lip gloss across his mouth.
He smiled,at the face that seemed familiar. The one that felt like home. The one that wasn't fake.
A ringing. The phone. Who could it be? He shivered.
He cleared his voice, and answered. Masculine, yet again. "Hello?"
"Sport! I'm coming home early, we'll have roast beef for dinner." It was his mother, a feeling of warmth tickled his heart.
He knew it was time to wash himself away yet again, in time for supper.
He stepped in the shower, and let the warmth cover his face, he sang the songs in his heart as loud as he could manage.
When he stepped out, he was no longer warm, or musical. He gazed in the mirror and saw the happiness trailing down his face.
Little black rivers, with rouge rainbows dancing through, "Goodbye," He said. I'll see you again soon."
Part 3: Sport
Sport had blonde hair. He’d grown it longer, And told his parents All the kids were doing it.
He’d pierced his ears, Both of them, And told his dad It was the latest thing.
It was Wednesday, And his birthday, Mom and Dad Were not at home.
He was eighteen, and ready for change. He left school early, Because he needed to prepare.
“I’ll make dinner, Mom.” He said. He’d make roast beef, It was a family favorite.
He opened her box, The pink one, With the bow, And let his dreams pour out.
He took his time, Easy fingers, Making every line Neat and perfect.
He plugged in irons, And curled his hair, Yellow and thick, With a band on top.
He rolled up his stockings, And took out a dress That wasn’t mothers. He put his feet in size 13 heels.
He listened to music His father would expect To come from the speakers Of his mother’s radio.
Prince, Cher, Madonna And Queen. God bless Freddy Mercury, He’d made the journey smooth.
Sport set the table And smoothed his dress As the sound of footsteps Grew closer to him.
The door opened, And as his parents entered He took a sip from His cup of wine.
The three met eyes, Father was the first, As always, To speak.
There was screaming, Booming rage in his father’s voice, But Sport sat still, And said nothing. Mother’s makeup was running, She sobbed, Dad kept screaming, As if he didn’t notice.
Sport finished his meal, And rose from his chair. He smoothed his dress, And let his heels click all the way up the stairs.
He sat on his bed, And let a tiny smile Blossom from his lips For the first time in years.
More stepping, Light and slow, It must be mother. Sport hoped she was alright.
She entered his room, Still sobbing and shaken, Sport stood up And embraced her tiny body.
They did not speak For a long time, Then finally, Mother said something, That Sport kept in his heart forever.
“You’re beautiful,” She said, And smiled sweetly to her son, “Pink brings out your eyes.”