DIPLOMA

She proudly stands before the institution, engulfed in the praise of her devoted family. Hands outstretched, mouths open full of recognition, feet sore of celebration, eyes gleaming with jubilation, tears dripping with pride, ears perked but not listening, whelmed by the weight of the event. In her hands she holds the evidence. The reward. The award. The home run in the bottom of the 9th inning. Two outs. The buzzer beater in the 4th quarter. The 50 year old singer finally catching his big break. Her last chance. The piece of paper that weighs more than she ever could, with the gold shining star in the right hand corner and her name signed on the bottom. Her husband stands next to her, joyful, prideful, rejoicing in his suit. Her youngest son sits behind on a bench exhausted, weak from the uproar, from the rampant enthusiasm. Her mother, father, sister and brother surround her, formed around her, like a tribal ritual, dancing in reverence, in gratitude, in congratulations. The other people observe the spectacle, awed, confused, captured, jealous, lonely, wanting but also happy. Why? She does not care, and neither does the family. We are isolated in front of N.J.I.T. Invisible but visible. And where am I? I am there behind the camera. The orchestrator. The omniscient one. The referee. The all-seeing-eye. Happiest of them all. Congratulations mom. You finally did it.