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And the Hatchet Came Alive

January 27, 2010

Last night I dreamt my kitchen appliances came alive, Fantasia style. It was a cocktail party, and I was surrounded. The refrigerator seemed only to want to talk about himself.  Twice he asked what I would like to drink, and twice forgot to bring it.

When I woke up it was clear as ice.

So I go:

You, refrigerator, listen up. You are handsome to look at, but not so bright. Each time I walk past you I am reminded of how many hours I have spent trying to wrest ice from you and failing, despite your shapely icons. “Why not read the manual?”  I have, we all have, and twice was enough. Why not learn to play the piano? Why not teach my children to knit? Why not read the paper? Oh, refrigerator: you entice me with your elegant casing, and squander my time.  In the hours spent trying to penetrate your mystery, I could have learned to speak Italian. I could have written a story. There are times I want to beat on your broad silver chest with my fists, but I know my passion would leave you cold.

The kitchen was quiet after this. I think the rest of them just didn’t know what to say.

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