Elephants
I have a large collection of elephant paraphernalia, owing to my infatuation and subscription to the debunked myths of their ability to feel emotion and burial of the dead. Rico came back from a trip home with many small porcelain elephant collections that he’d both received as a teacher in Thailand and that his mother bought to round out the ones he’d been given.
While Rico’s parents were in town this weekend, I (drunkenly) relayed a scene in our living room in which I expressed anxiety over the fact that one small elephant was sitting on top of our bar while the other small elephants were on the bookshelf with a bigger elephant. I believe I said something like:
“I just feel a little stressed about the fact that the small elephant is separated from the others.”
Rico waved his hand and said, “It’s fine.”
The point of the story was essentially that Rico had learned to wave off this emotion by honing the skill on his mother, and I unfortunately had learned to make ridiculous statements like that from my mother.
Rico’s father spoke up from the end of the table:
“I’m just glad I gave my son such a great life that the biggest fucking thing he has to worry about is some fake elephants!”
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I left the house today. And unloaded the dishwasher. And did laundry. And made dinner. And went to the grocery store. This may be a record for the week.
