An Ode to Insignificance
Most days,
I float.
It’s a sort of floating that goes
Unnoticed
I wish that some days
My brain would work as it is meant to,
That what ties me here
To this place
Wasn’t insignificant fleeting thoughts
A passing moment or memory.
An item once trashed and destroyed.
My broken brain finds beauty in the mundane
The discarded symbols
That no one else cared for
That’s how it found its home here,
A hollowed out centerpiece
Signifying the ordinary and the boring
The boring.
It floats here with me too
Like we have more in common than one could think
. . .
It was a focal point in the room, a mirage of painted on water colors against a slick ceramic surface. It stood proud throughout dinners, a growing reminder of all that we meant to each other. It had been found abandoned, its previous owners leaving it amongst a pile of trash and other abandoned stories. But to us, to this little home we had created, it meant everything. It almost seemed to watch over us, its eye sharp and vibrant as it perched on a brown log, talons seemingly dangerous and foreboding. It watched over us as we laughed and cried. It watched us late into the night and early into the morning. It was the reassuring presence that we all seemed to need at difficult times, a beautiful bird that was unable to fly but also did not need to. It appeared content in it’s frozen state as if this life it was bound to was nothing more than a passing thought. It was a figure of all that we were given and all that we had found, a series of treasures and memories a centerpiece on the table. But this bird specifically seemed to mean more. Throughout time as we moved on and grew old, it was passed down among our families, each using it as needed, a guide of wisdom or just a comforting watch guard. It served its purpose over centuries, eyes never losing their intense stare. The paint never seemed to fade or chip, a forcefield of beauty protecting it’s shimmering wings. Stories were created and debunked, about where it really came from, about what it truly meant. But nothing was ever concluded, a shroud of mystery casting over its body like somehow it knew more than we ever could. It’s power was carried in the thought that it could mean something unique to anyone that gazed upon it, an open book to interpret as one saw fit.
Years later, I heard that an old woman had bought it. It was said she needed the company, her apartment dark and filled with corners. Part of me wanted to reach out, to ask her to visit. But I knew that was silly, that no one asked to visit an old ceramic duck. I thought about how it must look in her home, with all the gloomy lights and burnt out cigarettes. They told me when they dropped it off that her home smelled of dog food and bleach but she didn’t seem like the type of person who would own a pet. I’d see her sometimes on the train, her face pressed up against the glass like a small child. I wondered what she thought about, if her brain was as empty as it looked. I hoped that the duck was bringing her joy, it’s eyes surely as bright and piercing as they had been when it was mine. I hoped it brought her some sort of happiness even if it was only fleeting.