The counter is cluttered with glass statuettes of Christmas trees and is verged with white tear-drop lights and fake, green fir leaves that form a festive garland. He doesn't know what these mean exactly, but they make him feel safe and warm. Oven warm. Nor does he know where he came from or what it is he's waiting for. But deep inside (well, as deeply as a one-inch-deep cookie can go) he's aware of a vague restlessness. There in the very center of his dough, implanted from the very beginning, is a desire to be chosen, to love and to be loved in return. Oh, how we cookies can philosophize, he thinks self-deprecatingly.
What he does know is that his associates have all absconded, each and every one, and that he himself has passed his prime some days ago, has passed his youth—his warm and gooey youth—and so all he can do now is wait . . . waiting like Mary (is there no sorrow she cannot relate to—even unto a cookie?) ever patiently to be assumed.
Oh no! the cookie thinks. I am a metaphor! Or is it simile? But just then a child's eager hand reaches into the bowl—assuming him body and soul with a giggle and a burp.
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An advent reflection (from an unlikely source) for your almost-Christmas season.
The death of P. Doughboy???
Ah, that would've been a great sub-title!
Love your wise, ruminating cookie. A skillfully wrought personification & extended metaphor. Or would that be, "Is metaphor the right word? Or is it metonym? Synecdoche?" Ah, whatever gets your cookies.