Thirteen birthday-attendees ride the little train through the painted tunnel and scream when the tunnel turns oil-black. Afterward, the animated girls leap onto the spring-loaded playground.

I fix eyes on the ponies dusting-up the ring from the perch of a bouncing rooster. After a few minutes, the birthday girl’s mom, Mrs. Bee, leads us over to the ring. I take Parochial-school position for biggest girl — end of the line.

Each time a young handler instructs the next rider how to safely mount, my heart leaps. I bound up the wooden stairs when my turn arrives. Butterbean’s handler wears a cowboy hat. His broad teeth shine like the sun. His slim eyes are eclipsed by his hat brim.

Those darkened eyes look me over. Out the sunlit mouth, a question trots out, “What do you weigh?”

I haven’t yet perfected the art of the lie. The truth sinks me 20 pounds above my classmates.

The cowboy’s teeth vanish behind a cloud of smirking lips, “You’re too big to ride this pony.”

I swallow the screaming. I reverse-off the podium.

My cheeks brighter than the eyes of giggling classmates and the red balloons bubbling beside Sally’s birthday cake, I clod, head down, praying for my early death.

Today, I no longer believe in God.

(Misty of Chincoteague – painted when I was 13 – I remember being quite proud of this acrylic work thinking at the time)

I hope for those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving that you had a beautiful holiday. I had 24 family members in my home, and we had a wonderful day. Today, the little girl who was turned away from a pony ride, is heading to the gym. Later, she will run her three miles when the sun warms the land a tad more. She is always running, trying to stay just ahead of the little sad girl.

am:)