The Plague of Weight Loss

He reached the last hole on his belt five homemade notches ago.  The curves of his face have become angular and the brightness of his eyes has yellowed.  He once stood six feet tall, even with the weight of the world on his shoulders.  He was industrious and willing, and still desires to be.

His time has been marked by the pounds he has shed.

He was blessed with good genes and a drive to keep busy.  Delighting in well-prepared food was his reward for a day’s work and he cleaned his plate without prompting.  Over time he earned a subtle roundness—a roundness only procured by 30 plus years of family dinners.  His body’s density made him durable and, to all appearances, unbreakable. 

His time has been marked by unfinished meals.

He has never outgrown clothing. His sweatshirts always fit, even if both midriff and wrist are on display. Lederhosen from his years in the Army, suit coats from his newly-wedded life, and swimming trunks with a three inch inseam allowed no room for an expanding waistline, yet they maintained control of his closet.

His time has now been marked by inches of extra fabric.

He lost weight and continues to lose more.  There is no accomplishment to speak of. There wasn’t a miracle pill or an exercise plan.  In fact, there are no health benefits.  He is living in a body that feeds the disease first and the man second.  He has only sacrificed one thing for a more slender figure: his life.