They are scissors. Out to cut that which looks, sounds, thinks, believes, prays, teaches, lives, and/or loves differently than they do. A snip here, a little off the top there. Deconstructing that which doesn't match their pattern, in hopes of reshaping the fabric so that it fits one certain selfish image.
We, on the other hand, tend to be rocks. Tough and resilient. Able to roll with the punches and pushes that are meant to send us out to shore. Sometimes submerged, yet never sunk. Maintaining our natural beauty both despite and because of the elements we're forced to weather.
Which brings us to paper. It's the traditional gift for the first wedding anniversary, the milestone that this writer both celebrates and honors alongside his legally-wedded husband on this mid-June night. It's a piece of imagery that the cynic might see as tenuous. And yes, while it's true that nurture must be paid so as to avoid rips or cuts, I prefer a different view. I see the paper as a canvas. A portrait waiting, nay, begging for paint. A script in need of wordplay. A card that longs for a knowing, loving glance. A protest sign begging for some fortitude. A civil marriage license meant for two citizens, regardless of gender, who just want the right to friggin' love already.
Scissors cut paper? Not this time. Not tonight. Not ultimately.
And when they try? Let's rock!
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