Orange Palpation

I stood there, leaned actually, against the counter in the kitchen chewing on a piece of papaya. Orange encrusted onto the rivets of my fingers. Slippery, loose and free falling. I hold on for dear life. I held on like a pro. Only years of papaya eating could a man, such as myself, attain the needed skills to balance a slice of papaya between his thumb and index. Two slices. The very last ones. Gone in Sixty Seconds...try that one on for size Nicholas Cage. I balled up my napkin, imprinted with the orangeness of my palpation, and tossed it into the open garbage disposal. With water running, I let the plate bathe. I wondered, as I grabbed and moved the spout of the water, changing its course along the surface of the plate, what will the plate be used for next? I mean, I noticed that plates are always being used, washed, and then reused. What will its next job be? Will it be used for mac and cheese? Mom's "special" meatloaf? Leftover chicken? Maybe it'll be forgotten about and won't be used until later, way later, during a Christmas dinner party where my aunt Maria will reach far back into the cupboard and pull out an old dusty plate, blow onto it, run it under water, and spoon mashed potatoes onto it. Are we just like plates? Easily manipulated? Or look at it in a more optimistic way. We can handle anything thrown or placed upon us. We'll keep our heads up and face impossible odds, no matter what they may be. Apple pie? Two pounds of chow mein? Maybe even papaya. But what the most interesting commonality we share maybe the fact that we both can live through the ordeal and be reborn. Washed clean and able to do it all over again.



Shits, I gotta go do the dishes, I'll talk to you later.
" Coming DAD!"