Spilled Milk

Oh no! I spilled my milk and dropped my cookies. But I don’t want to clean them up.

Because . . .

I see a mitten.

I see a cat.

I see a ribbon.

I see the moon.

I see a flower.

I see a frog.

I see a cloud.

I see a heart.

***

I’ve always known I’m not like the other girls and boys and grown-ups. They see colors and shapes and letters but they don’t see past to find the pictures and the words. I wish they could know the meaning of the world like I do, I see . . .

A mitten.

Close-knit stitches come together like the shapes and the letters to form a structure that can mean much more than it is. The colors can be vibrant for drama, soft for the meek, neutral for the ones who can’t make up their mind – the mindless drones and conformists. Given as a present or as the mere wish that one always has warmth, it reminds me of grandmothers and mothers and aunts. I never see the grown-ups wearing mittens, preferring gloves, separating their selfish fingers, no equal distribution of warmth. I wish the grown-ups would learn to share, and the children learn to give.

A cat.

They might see a Stupid Animal or they might see Snuggles, but I only have eyes for mystery. The sleek feline movements of kitty cats make me think of whispering wind and rainy days, thunder and lightning storms that cover the sun and its shine, of big men in trench coats and little ladies in red lipstick, of a secret shared by the littles or the larges. Kitties make me think of sweet contentment in the form of a throaty purr, a simplistic way to show that there is nothing more you could want that moment, and I wonder why I never hear my brother purr. Kitties are more like humans than we think; most of them are dreadfully mean creatures that love barely and only when shone showering affection, with the occasional kindhearted soul stretched few and far between. Sometimes I pretend to be a kitty cat with great yellow eyes that see past the chest and into the heart.

A ribbon.

Oh, but ribbons are the most joyful things! Deep silky red, light-as-air blue, violet as chrysanthemums, they are a delight. I have ribbons to tie back my hair, to tie up my books, to tie up gifts. Sometimes I have ribbons to tie up my hands and feet, I have ribbons to seal my mouth shut when the words escape too quickly. I have ribbons upon ribbons upon ribbons, but I don’t seem to have much joy . . .

The moon.

Nothing is more mischievous than the Great White Light that hangs in the sky with its sly partners, the stars. Tending to inspire a hint of madness in the moony gazers of the atmosphere, it discreetly transforms the inner workings of one’s mind as well as the outside world around them. Everything is pristine and quieter on a night of full ripeness, the photons bouncing from the sun to the moon to the earth to the sea and back again, no rhyme or reason. When God forgets and the moon has dripped away and the sky is as dark as pitch, I cannot help but wish to ascend into heaven and shine the liquid stardust down as that one man once did for humans in defiance of Zeus, those I suppose fire is much less destructive than the power of transformation.

A flower.

I despise flowers. They are a poor imitation of fantastic trunks that give way to climbing branches, a cruel mockery of the ladders into the stratosphere. These disgusting liars believe that they can steal the limelight of the trees with their pitiful excuses for oxygen emissions, their perfume that fades after a single whiff. And then they must go multiplying and spreading their seed all across oceans and prairies so that the trees, who know that it takes time to become wise, can hardly keep up with this rate of growth. Flowers are all that is wrong with me, as I wish to be a tree.

A frog.

The filmy skin of these amphibians has yet to disappoint. Cool green that will stay restless for all its life, vowing to leap bounds away from you, yet one cannot help but want to chase after. I envy the frog for all its marvelous insignificance, the ability to fade and camouflage into the trees and the flowers and the moonlight, away from the ribbons and the creatures that hunt and haunt him. The frog will not know how good he has it, for all his problems, until they outsmart him and he is dead.

A cloud.

Clouds are like flowers, they are liars. Some of them seem to be as firm and solid as the moon and instead one falls straight through the cracks and hits earth jarringly. The wispy ones catch you, tethering you there until they decide the wind has whipped at your features enough so that you truly resemble everyone else. They are hypocrites, individuality allowed only in themselves, wanting only to stand out in a way that no one else can. They refuse to be overshadowed and so they press against the stars and the blue expanse and laugh.

A heart.
Something I wish to have.

And so my brother finds the mess and I am reminded of why I should have used to ribbons to stop the words from flowing out. The pictures become shapes and the words become letters and reality is reverted, a cruel cleanliness that reminds me why I am unlike everyone else.