A Space Between
Against a wall of hot pink so loud it is practically singing, he stands crowned in a glorious mess of pom-poms, baubles, and yarn that refuses every rule about taste, restraint, and what a man is allowed to wear on his head. The powder blue mask softens the face into something cherubic. The mouth, open, he breathes the cold crips air. The beadwork at his throat layers from someone's grandmother's drawer, an inheritance from an unknown woman. This is the boy who turned the living room into a stage. The headpiece is every craft bin, resurrected as regalia, blessed by use, sanctified by joy. The pink behind him is bubblegum, bougainvillea, the lipstick he tried on alone and then in front of everyone. There is no coronation. There is no audience. There is no occasion. He didn't wait for any of it. He lit the candles himself. He cued the music himself. He put the crown on his own head, and then he danced. The party is not coming. The party is here. The party is him.