An Ode to Normalcy
By Eva Grace Martinez
Volume 2 Issue 4
February 10, 2022
Image provided by Kendall McLeod
To find love in simple things isn't easy, so over the past month, I have challenged myself to write dramatic descriptions of simple objects as an exercise in reminding myself about all the beautiful things around us. The following are 5 selections from this challenge:
The orange bowl I eat from each morning:
Smooth, cold, yet entirely perfect. A shade too dark to be tangerine, yet too light to be anything close to amber. Far from the neon shades of paint seen in stores, it is an orange that is perfectly acceptable, not too much of anything, just a simple, and maybe perfect for it, bowl.
The aqua blue glasses, the only glasses I will drink from:
Slightly too heavy for a cup, almost as weighty as a mug, yet not nearly light enough to hand to anyone under the age of 6. These made-in Bulgaria IKEA glasses stand as a testament to the awe-inspiring power of light. No matter how dark or bright, the shifting shades of blue paint an ocean in my cup, and for a moment, all is well.
The out of tune acoustic guitar next to my window:
The strings are too tense; each note plucked resonates sharp and unforgiving. This is the price of progress, as the electric hangs beautifully in tune away from any potential threats to its static perfection. Rarely now will I find my fingers wrapped around the wooden neck of an instrument that has taught me to love sound in all its forms, and even when reaching out for it, it knows me now as an unloving parent, doomed to place it by the wayside.
The polka dot lunchbox I’ve kept since 4th grade:
Obnoxiously bright, I hide the flinch at its migraine-inducing coloration each time I pack myself a simple sandwich or salad. The yellow has dulled to a mustard grey as the years have passed, and the pinks have blended into their red neighbors. I have always hated this lunchbox, never marked with the trademarked characters which inspired lunchroom seat hierarchies; I loathed ever to let my 4th-grade enemies catch a glimpse of this glaring weakness. Yet, as I place it into my bag, I am reminded of an easier time, where a polka dot lunch box can hold and is the biggest of my worries.
The vejigante which sits on my dresser:
Are you indeed a demon? The eight-year-old who placed you so gently in her room nearly ten years ago would like to know. If so, are you not indebted to me? The bright yellow triangle carved into a coconut painted in a deep black, or what would be your face, has been well-loved since you have been brought here. Though your left horn is no longer as tight as it once was, I hope you are still comfortable here, in this house, or maybe as that eight-year-old futilely hoped—your home.