Pitiful Elephant.

The Elephant in the Room.

I'm getting tired of conversing with myself lately. So, bear with me while I unmount some passengers from my train of thought. For the sake of it, like every other literate expressionist, name my fragment; Caramel. Her mother had a sweet tooth, and her father a liking for her mother. High school sweethearts they thought they would be, but cowardice had it that once Miss Spice developed this sweet dough in her creamy womb would a soon to be father, not handle that responsibility and ran. He ran faster than a murderer who took a life, but here he turned a bigger a sinner than the murderer; disposition of abandoning life he helped cultivate.

Miss Spice stayed to reap the harvest alone. The sweetest harvest she would have ever hoped for. With every scream and painful push she cried came life closer to the sum total of all the sweetness Miss Spice let in her tummy. Covered in the total opposite of pleasantries was the most amazing thing Miss Spice had ever seen. She was a woman all her life, she's, even more, important now. A representative of God now, she is a mother. Grandmother Spice never liked Caramel's father. Miss Spice didn't have a mother's intuition back then to understand Grandmother Spice's wayward assumptions of the man. Now, in the clarity of pain and a holy pleasure, a new feeling of need overcame Mother Spice.

'Look at her skin, Mother.' cried Miss Spice. 'She's beautiful, she sounds so sweet. Her eyes are hazel, her grasp around my finger is so soft. If she is sugar now, my love will her thaw her to a smooth Caramel.'

And so came to be our little Caramel. I think the father was let me see, he was a Geoffrey something...

It will come to me. Geoffrey would never see her, never see his little Caramel Spice. She would never have his name. She would know a world without a man's influence, but a world with a fairer prospect. She would demonstrate what love truly is, knowing what right and wrong is by self-reading the good book, all by herself because Miss Spice was running her late shifts at the local diner. Caramel would be the sweetest ingredient anywhere she went. Songs would be written of this crispy oxymoron, the girl with skin like a clay pot, crafted by the most skillful hands. Caramel is lucky to have Spice added to her. She would not believe in the notion of people being the opposite of their names; no, she is lucky because she would be a strong girl. It takes all of a person to know another, and dear Caramel knows you. The you who hurts, you who questions all the wrong that happens to you obliviously.

Caramel Spice. She would be the perfect daughter to the sweet-toothed Miss Spice. Just the silent meaning of Geoffrey, Miss Spice, and Caramel defines where we are. Geoffrey naturally doesn't smoothly flow into this little family. And who am I that saw all this?

I'm the assumption maker, I'm the doctor in the room. The one who doesn't let Geoffrey run. I'm the murderer who doesn't let Caramel Spice exist because Grandmother Spice wouldn't have society judge her. I'm the abortionist.