Life may be like a box of chocolates.
I have not experienced others' lives,
So I cannot know
What they feel,
What their lives are like.
But my life may be,
Perhaps,
Like a box of chocolates
For I greatly love chocolate.
The box, though a gift I may not have gotten for myself,
I do not think of giving away.
I do not turn down good chocolate.
In their brown paper wrappers
The chocolates sit,
Waiting
For me to pull them out,
Taste them,
Eat them.
If I look under the lid,
There is,
Sometimes,
A diagram, of which chocolate has which filling.
Sometimes I pick and choose,
Though I not always get the one I wanted.
Sometimes I randomly grab one,
And hope to be satisfied.
Some are not sweet, but bitter, with a foul aftertaste.
Some are sickening with their overpowering syrupy-sweetness.
Some I know I will not like,
And I give them away to others who want them.
Some I want to taste,
But others ask, and I share.
Some hide nuts, hard, but satisfying.
Some are pure, sweet chocolate, unadulterated.
Sometimes I instinctively know which will be coconut,
And sometimes I am suprised by the sweet pinkness of the strawberry creme filling.
Some I gobble down,
Some I save,
And when I get the syrupy candies with the cherry inside,
I try to keep the taste in my mouth
For a long, long time.
I like chocolates.
When I am done, I put away the useless brown wrappers,
Close the box,
And I savor the tastes that still linger on my tongue,
Each separate,
Yet blending together,
To form something
Impossibly delicious.


By Aniad
The girl who always knows which ones will be coconut, though she is always mystified by the strawberry cremes. Copyright 1997

If you have questions or comments, mail Aniad.
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