The best days weren’t the ones when the sky was blue and the grass was green and the birds chirped.
No…the best days were the ones when the sky was a swirl of creamsicle orange across a canvas of turquoise and the grass was replaced by bolts of shimmering silk and the birds warbled with southern accent. On days like that one could have as much sherbet as one wanted, because somehow it just seemed fitting.
But gradually the sky and the grass became varying shades of beige, and the birds just cleared their throats uncomfortably. Nobody ate sherbet anymore, because it tasted like cold cotton balls, and nobody likes cold cotton balls.
All the mamas used to say that if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. We stood in our shiny pinchy shoes, listening carefully to the great wisdom of our elders.
We had no idea that one day our hearts would repeat the mama mantra, with a subtle unauthorized twist: if you can’t feel anything nice, don’t feel anything at all.
They mostly sound the same, they mostly swallow the same, but they don’t digest the same. One sits in the stomach like cold cotton balls.
But maybe the heavy beige parka will cover up our distended bellies and nobody will notice.