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The Bodyguard Meets The Blubberguard

The Bodyguard Meets The Blubberguard

Tediously I sit in the back office of the house on Maple. Back and forth I fold the perforated, treaded edges of the computer’s printer paper. Removing it gently as to maintain its uniform structure. Gripping the forbidden scissors in my right hand, meticulously snipping between each circle of the tread. One after another and then just one more.

Rummaging in the kitchen pantry for a few sandwich bags, I swiftly move to the junk drawer to acquire some scotch tape. Scooping the bountiful piles of homemade confetti into each sandwich bag, I divvy the squares as evenly as possible, by sight no less.

Retreating to my bedroom and positioning a desk chair just so below my ceiling fan, I adhere the partially-sealed bags of white confetti to each of the four blades. Pushing the chair back beneath the oak desk in the corner, I search fervently for the pink and teal boom box. Once located firmly atop the rose embellished dresser, steps are taken to cue the cassette to the perfect track.

A shout to my sisters, one older and one younger, brings them front row by way of unkempt twin bed. The lights are dimmed. As the play button is pressed, a white noise echoes from the well-worn tape before the song begins. A hairbrush offering itself as a microphone stand-in, a tone deaf rendition of the fall blockbuster belts from my lungs.

Perceived anticipation builds as the key-change approaches. The switch is flipped. As the blades gain speed, round and round, out of the strategically placed sandwich bags falls the confetti effortlessly.

An outro leads to a bow, a pride, a confidence followed closely by a slow, confused applause, of which only a pair of sisters could deliver. Sweeping the remains of my performance into the dust pan, a smile spreads from one ear to the other. It had been done. By no means done well, but surely a feat undertaken without falter.

Rest in peace, Whitney.

I will always love you.

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