War Paint

Woodson

Melissa, talking to a friend of hers, her dirty blond hair and coral dress drifting gently in the breeze.

I recognize the other woman she is conversing with - one of her other close friends that works as a part-time seamstress like herself. Most people in Woodson have a specialty, and every time anyone needs something they always know who to go to.

Melissa notices me watching and waves at me, so I wave back.

In response, she throws me a dazzling smile - a common thing for her these days. She, like many other women my age, is finally getting married.

It's strange that although I am friendly with Melissa, we are very opposite from one another. I always was - and still am - the odd ball out. I do not gossip about others like the other women in town, and I do not sit around to braid hair or decorate.

Melissa, on the other hand, is frivolous and girly, yes, but also soft and kind - which I have proof of from personal experience. She would help out anyone in a bad time, including someone like me.

In fact, Melissa and I only became acquainted when she saved me from making a very bad decision when I was young. And for that, I am very grateful. But, we are still a little too different from each other to really be considered the best of friends.

So when Melissa and the lady she has been talking to approaches me and asks me if I want to visit her house later, I gratefully decline.

Melissa, unlike her friend, nods politely in understanding before walking away from me across the field.

I love Melissa, but she isn't like me in the sense of society and friends.

Melissa is a perfect role model of what a girl should be, expected to be, in this era. She likes wearing dresses, she stays at home, she is engaged to be married, she cooks and cleans and stays clean. She is quiet and has good manners.

However, I know that along with this attitude comes obedience, silence, and conformity - strengths that I do not have.

I know that women these days, including gentle-hearted Melissa, only get together to do meaningless things, like gawk over the clothes Melissa makes because she's one of the best seamstresses in town, or plan out their upcoming weddings.

And I know that if I were present during these gatherings, the girls in my town who are friends with Melissa would ask why I haven't been courted yet, would hound me about being too boyish and ill-mannered.

For not being open enough about my life.

And this wouldn't bother me if only they wouldn't cower at any mention of the war in their talks. What truly bothers me is that these women will speak of anything but the real issue at hand, anything but the war, anything but the things we should actually be concerned about.

Issues that we should open our mouths to address.

I shake my head as I reach for the rope on the water well's hook to attach my bucket to the simple machine, my fingertips already knowing what to do.

Distracted, I let myself remember when I was a kid, when my family and I used to go out together on Sundays - to breakfast and to Church.

Before the war was so different.

I was able to swim in the river by my house, roll in the mud, have fun with my brother.

Now there's nothing to look forward to except getting an extra piece of bread at dinnertime.

Whatever happened to the world I knew?

The frown on my face falls into exhaustion as I brush the dirt off of my square apron, knowing that there is nothing I can do to change things now. I shake my head at my childishness, since currently, I have other things to worry about.