The Fat Lady

I am a conductor. I am a resident Tenor. I wave my arms, the music starts, and the rhythm of my life surges into being. I lift my voice, and the children rise up and float toward me. I send one to the task over here, and another to the task over there, and that one must do this, and to the last, I sing, “Did you do the thing that I asked of you?” He sings back. He is a young and inexperienced baritone. He is off-key, and I tell him so. “Keep working on it. You'll hit the right note, eventually.”

I am the director. From stage left, there is a noise. It is footsteps and grumbling. The husband enters. He is tangled up in himself, has lost things, and has missed his cue. “No, no, no! This will not do!”

I untangle him, find his things and send him off the stage. He should be replaced! But, alas, it is too late. The fans expect him, and he has no understudy.

Day after day, the music plays, and the curtain rises. Day after day, after day, after day, after day. This show has run for decades and is contracted to run right into eternity.

Each artist here believes themselves to be the star of the show, each one! But I am the star. I hold the baton, sit on the director’s chair and bring down the curtain at the end of each performance.

I am the fat