Plates

Cara and I recently spend a lot of time deciding on what plates set to register for. It got me thinking about what the world must seem like to the plates, bowls and silverware in our life...

Plates.

They have a pretty thankless job in our daily routines. They get locked away in cabinets, in the dark and with only their fellow plate companions to comfort them in what I am sure is a constant state of horror alway's wondering when the next form of torture will come.

We, at our leisure, throw open the doors and quickly scan around for our next victim. We think carefully about this because we already know the form of torture to come and need the perfect plate for the job.

So we find what we need, pull it out of the cabinet and place it on the table. To them I'm sure this could be similar to an operating table. They look to their side and see the instruments of unimaginable horror. A side dish of steaming veggies to scorch the surface, a helping of garlic mashed potatoes to silence the screams. And to top it off, a hot slab of dead animal meat to really mess with their heads.

We then take our tools and scrape against their skin, pushing and pulling the instruments of unimaginable horror all over the victim's body.

And what do we do when we are finished? Well if you are as sick and demented as we are, chances are you leave the plate in a pit with no chance of escape. A shallow grave to him, a kitchen sink to us. Here he sits, for days on end at times. His body scarred with the brutality of what had happened.

And just when he thought, he prayed, he hoped for death... he is picked up and placed in a box. It's dark, he looks around and can see fellow victims. The bowls, the spoons, the cookie sheets. All mangled with their experience. Suddenly the door closes and switch is flipped. The box is dark and quickly filling with scolding hot water. I'm sure at this point the plate's heart is beating harder and harder. His thought's racing around. He wonder's what this new form of torture is, thinks of the saucer plates he will be leaving behind, wondering if the coffee cup he loves is doomed to the same fate.

The water and soap are churning faster and faster at this point. Digging deeper into his wounds, pounding against his body. And then the water drains and he holds out a faint hope that this demonic ride is at its end. But then he feels it start to come over him. The steam is building up more and more. It suffocates everything around him, clings to the water left of him and pulls it off with a slow force.

The door opens back up and a wave of fresh air and light hits him. He is grabbed and inspected end over end. Surely this is to ensure that this latest form of torture was successful.

The cabinet door opens back up and he is placed in his old spot. The door closes and he wonders...

What does this all mean? Why was he put through such hell for days on end if only to be placed back in his dark tomb.

But all he can do is sit and wait. And pray. Wondering when his turn will come again.