aeroplane

fig. Pain by Ray Dust

 When I was only a child, my mother would smile at me, "say aaa", she would grin, then and plonk the spoon-sized aeroplane of Cerelac into my mouth. Her face would bloom fondly at my innocent confusion. Where did the aeroplane go? What about its tiny passengers?

Not much has changed since. I open my mouth wide now, as wide as I can go, so life can feed me all of its mirth and all of its misery. "Say aaa", croons Life. I say aaa, hopeful. I get a mouthful of hurt. "Open up", teases Life. "AAAAAAA!!", I scream and scream until there aren't any stray aeroplanes or passengers left to fret over.