Fish and pie

Being a symbol comes at a mighty cost. Day after day, I hang here, swinging in the gentle breeze, sweating in the scorching sun, with brief moments of relief during the thunderous rain.

I didn’t start out like this, I was happy, had a purpose, I could have been anything,  on any one, traveled, been seen by the world.

Instead I hang here, because I was one of the chosen ones.

Sitting in the room that day, I saw her when she came in, there was something about her, as if destiny had already written my story. Uncomfortable, I hid.

“I have exactly what you are looking for”, the woman with the pie spoke.

Then everything went dark. I endured days of pain, cut with blades, needles pierced through me, when suddenly it all stopped.

No I hadn’t died, I was transformed.

No longer a piece of material in the back of a shop, I hung from a balcony, fashioned as a fish.

Sketch by Alan Fitzpatrick Lisbon, Portugal Sept. 2015

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