Metaphor

She notifies me, sometimes, that she thinks in metaphors. I’m often told, ‘It’s a bird thing.’

I wouldn’t comprehend, certainly, because I’m one of those feline folk. Or so we occasionally joke.

In all frankness, most people gather that I’m too realistic for metaphors. That in this world I am methodical, everything requires its own separate box, and there is to be no assimilation. Yet my work and my love mingle—why would other aspects confine their meanings to simple sets of definitions?

No. I, in fact, unearth metaphors gracing my own thoughts as well.

They are my transitions of thought—those pesky words and phrases that I am forever nitpicking my students into including in their papers. Transitions smooth everything out. Here I am, thinking in metaphors about metaphors.

As usual, Xiomara has motivated my thoughts on metaphors. Images of her in flight gently lift my thoughts from those which would bring me great strain. Thoughts of her are the feathers that tickle my hardships down to size.

Yes, I am picturing her smiling eyes. I adore the creases that appear beside her lovely grins. Handsome and beautiful simultaneously.

She is asleep at the present, I would imagine. Only madwomen like me would be awake at this late or obscenely early hour.

She is an early riser. She is the early bird that catches the worm.

I frown as I think that I could well be the worm, often exhausted by a hard night of labor. I recline back into my less-than-comfortable desk chair and sigh. My layers are stifling despite the lowered temperature of evening. It is, after all, a summer’s eve.

The peck at my window has my heart jumping out of my chest. I am an old middle-aged witch. I am the age to Xiomara’s youth.

There is a hawk at my window. My youth has arrived. A bout of sure joy shocks my parchment-dry body.

“You are mad,” I inform her. I am delighted. I know my body will dilute that fact, but she will know.

Her next move is one I would never expect but, coming from her, would never find astounding. She is perplexing and unpredictable, and thus leaves me expecting the unanticipated.

She is in my chair, nude as the air, and looking up at me. I return the gaze and halt the urge to marvel at the body of hers that I have come to know as well as my own.

“You came to see me?” I solicit as I stride to my perfectly organized desk and straighten a pile of perfectly stacked papers. I need to be doing something with my hands, else they will be somewhere that would turn me as deep a red as my tartan. At that thought, and to join my next statement, I cock one brow. “I can only assume it isn’t school-related or you would have taken advantage of my door.”

She shrugs her shoulder in that tensionless, avian way that drives my knees to weakness. The ease of her body soothes the tension of mine. I have a striking specimen sitting directly before me, and here I stand erect with a desk between the two of us.

I pounce. Metaphorically, I regret to inform.

“You wish me a break?” I am convinced. I will soon be leaving these stone walls for a time, I predict.

I press my tongue to my teeth as she nods in that brisk yet carefree way. She reminds me of a young man when she does that, or a masculine lesbian—which of course she is. I would care to nibble on that jaw line of hers, down the bridge of her neck…

“Perhaps a stroll through the grounds won’t hurt me—” I consent quickly, judging that I shall have to drown myself in cooler air to prevent the awakening of my body. I have one condition for her as she moves to stand.

“—if you reacquire your clothing.”

It is a hard stipulation for both of us, but I truly do have some work to finish tonight. I may have her later.

I gaze at her fixedly, putting a draft of chilly air into my features to cover the flame burning beneath, and speak once more.

“Do you know what time it is?”

She is not slumbering at this hour, but with an old spinster in a drafty castle. My motive for my wakeful state is entirely sound; I am beginning to believe that hers is instinctive.

“Two thirteen on a dark and yet-awake morn’,” she replies. I nearly smile at her poetic response but look to my watch instead. As usual, she is wholly too close for my own console. She tells me it’s a bird thing. She feels the sunlight approaching or diminishing in her very bones. In my younger days I would turn my nose up, retorting that time was only in her bones because they were otherwise hollow and feeble. I have grown to appreciate her sense of time in tandem with her ability to capture and maintain a youthful spirit.

“Two twelve. You’re off your mark today,” I riposte. She knows my humor.

I trail her smile. It is my lantern in the dark, always. I readily follow her wherever she goes, for she has provided me with the fact, intellectually and intuitively, that she has honorable destinations and magnificent journeys. I am gratified to recognize that, sometimes, she follows me as well.

She is already my winged metaphor, as she is my link to all around me and the embodiment of all that I cherish as dear.

I require no other metaphor, but it is my greatest luck to find she is not a stingy or covetous lover. She allows me plentiful opportunities to discover connections between concepts otherwise obscure.

She will keep me sane in this upcoming year, and in many more.

This hawk is my favorite toy and warmest napping lap. I appreciate her challenges for me to let my own quirky thoughts escape. I laugh.

Her elation wraps around the two of us in a way that can only bring us closer. My living metaphor is perfect.