I live for metaphors (and similes). I search for them like other people collect shells. The annoying part is that I find them just as precious, as valuable. If I could put them to my ear and listen for the ocean, I would.
While chopping granny smith apples to paper thin slices, my knife misfired. Later, I nursed the slippery band-aids that inadequately covered my left ring finger stripped of 1/3 of its protective nail. The context was the day after a painful revelation that stung my heart. If I were truthful, that wounded. After spending 30 minutes on the elliiptical immediately following the news captured in a small red heart, I was prepared to bravely accept a bleaker reality. To wake up to a new day. To chop granny smiths and enjoy cheesy apple toasted muffins . . .
The days that followed have been that false sunniness. Where you spend most of your time shivering, because you’re not adequately protected. Too foolish to wear long-johns. To bundle up. The sun mocks. Happiness strewn about. Sharp. So contemptuously bright.
Then there’s the elimination brackets. Like everyone I always like a good upset. I feel I am that upset. I identify with outside chances. The long shots. The ones that cause the country simultaneously to throw up its collective hands but also root for it. How cliche? That’s why we pay attention to college basketball. I had Penn going all the way.
In a few days it will be April Fools’ Day. I’m hoping that the obvious nature of this holiday will render any metaphor powerless.
I love a solid, cathartic rain storm. Everything soaked. No, scrubbed. A hearty hair wash in an Asian beauty shop. That’s what April promises and I’m holding it to this.