Happy New Years readers. Thank you for all of the support. This year, I’m challenging myself to use a lot more metaphors in my writing. It has always been a challenge for me to write deep meaning in writing without being so direct, so this will be exciting for me. I’m always open to feedback as well. So if you have suggestions or good reads to help me practice, let me know. Enjoy.
It was a Sunday afternoon, I was a young 13 year old boy, and I was curiously hungry.
Opening the fridge to see what I can have,
Pure clean filtered water, bag of red grapes, and ham left untouched since Friday,
Next to the ham was a block of cheese, and with plenty of bread in the house, a sandwich was the best choice for me.
I got my ingredients together, the ham, the body of bread, and the cheese,
But before I could move forward, I noticed the cheese had grown older,
Had grown mold where it used to be perfect for the fridge, and could no longer be accepted.
While I was one my way to replace the moldy cheese, my grandma asked where I was going,
I let her know that the cheese is no longer young, a newer version would take its place.
She took me by the hand to spectate the cheese, and said not to leave, she will make it better.
“We had plans for this.” she said.
My grandma, took the cheese with mold, examined it, and pulled out a knife,
As she stabbed the moldy cheese, the knife’s sharp edges reflecting off her silver T around her neck,
Slicing away the mold from the cheese, trying best to make it what it be.
The mold trying to hide itself within the cheese, no escape from the wrath.
Forgiving blade expelling it from the body.
“No need to replace the cheese, its only the mold that the fridge hates, get rid of that and it can be allowed back.”
Back to an acceptable yellow, dissected away from what it use to be.
Mold, left to rot away in the garbage.
The cheese having confessed, being reborn, and put back into the fridge.
As I held what my grandma prepared, I waited for her to look away,
Before I threw what she made me into compost.