Dead Elephant

We’d rather have a live elephant, white or pink, it doesn’t matter; even though it must be fed, and elephant shit is harder to shovel than the proverbial bull’s, it keeps us occupied, gives us a sense of hope. When it dies, it’s someone’s fault; someone has done something or not done something, forgotten to feed or walk or water it. Rarely do they die of old age or from lack of attention, no matter what anyone says. They do not stay small in relation to the size of the room they inhabit, and someone always notices and yells, What about that elephant in the room? even if they do this not for the elephant but in order to embarrass the one who will have to do the explaining. How did the elephant get in here anyway? But a dead elephant is worse than a horse of another color, and no one wants a smoking elephant which is quite possibly what a dead one will become if not dealt with quickly. The problem is no one gives these elephants names. They’re all just white elephant or elephant in the room, anonymous, hungry, no matter how much we feed them, no matter how much we profess to care.

Laura McCullough | Mudlark No. 32
Contents | Opposites Attract