|
You are only seeing a fraction of my work. If you want to see it all join my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/itsmetoo If you are already a supporter, go to the Table Of Contents on my Patreon and click the proper link to get the new password. |
Captioned Images Series: The Unchanged
Created: 07/14/2025
The afternoon sun filtered through the cherry blossoms, casting dappled shadows over the park. Margaret—no, he was Margaret now, wasn’t he?—adjusted the ivory headscarf tied neatly under his chin. The gesture was muscle memory, a lifetime of habit. His reflection in the pond nearby showed a stranger: smooth cheeks, broad shoulders, the faint stubble he’d forgotten to shave. But the dress was the same. Always the same.
Light pastel cotton, knee-length A-line, puffed sleeves like a girl from the 1950s. The taupe tights itched in the summer heat. Pearls clicked as he reached for his gloves, white and pristine, even as the young men behind him lobbed a frisbee that nearly clipped his headscarf.
“Watch it, dude!” one shouted, laughing. They were shirtless, sweat glinting on toned stomachs, their laughter sharp and unburdened.
Margaret’s lips tightened. When I was their age, I would never act like that. The words rose unbidden, prim and proper. But the voice that spoke them was deeper now, unfamiliar. A young man’s voice.
The tallest of the group paused, squinting at him. “Hey, you lost?”
Margaret stood, smoothing the dress’s hem. “I’ve been coming to this park since before you were born,” he said, then flushed. The phrase had always been true—until the Shift.
The group exchanged glances. One snorted. “You’re, like, 25, right? Chill.”
Twenty-five. The number rang hollow. He’d been 82 last spring. Had worn this same dress to his husband's funeral. Now the fabric hung differently, stretched over angles that weren’t his.
A child’s balloon drifted past, emblazoned with HAPPY SHIFT ANNIVERSARY!—five years since the world had swapped bodies, reshuffled ages. Most adapted. Dyed hair, bought new clothes, embraced second chances. But Margaret had simply… kept dressing. Kept being.
As the sun dipped, he sat on his usual bench, the one beneath the oak that had been a sapling when he was a girl. The young men jogged past again, their shadows long. One tossed a water bottle into a recycling bin, shouting, “Respect the park, grandpa!”
The nickname stung. Not because it mocked his clothes, but because it mocked a truth he refused to see: in this body, he was their peer. Their equal.
He folded his gloved hands in his lap, pearls cool against his collarbone. Tomorrow, he’d wear the lavender dress. The one with the lace trim.
Some things, the Shift couldn’t change.
Made with Ideogram Image Generator