You slipped.
When I was a kid, I used to go down the slide over and over again, like it was some sort of routine that would heal a messed up world. This was back when my mom was an actual mom, and, for hours, she’d watch me, laughing, tickling, caring.
I’d get the top of the structure.
Take a deep breath.
Hurtle to the bottom.
The thing is, when it’s just a slide, you can always crawl back up to the top, relive the experience. Take another slip of fate.
But, when it’s puking your guts into the park’s garbage bin, there’s no where to go. No metal ladders. No chance to fix your little slip.
I guess metaphors can’t just spring to life.
