“In the end, everything was a metaphor,” I’d tell everyone else, “that is what I love about life.” One could take anything, anything at all, and pick it up, and talk about life. It had this very meta nature which was absolutely beautiful. An old, torn, busted shoe which still manages to hold on? There’s a lesson in there somewhere. A bird sitting at the window sill, chirping? That’s something life is trying to tell you. Overhear a conversation two strangers seem to be having at the table behind you? You’re bound to hear something that sticks with you forever. A favourite mug, terribly cracked, and yet not broken, sticking, and holding on for over a year just because you happened to bring it up as a metaphor when you first mentioned it? It was all there. “Why won’t you see it?” I’d argue. It’s all about how far you’re willing to see, and how far you’re willing to go. Life was always telling you something. It’s all in the damned, in the unexpected, in the persistence of it all. That’s where it all was, demanding for us to look at it, and we were particularly blessed to see it. Everything was a metaphor. I wouldn’t have it any other way.