Her Name is Elizabeth

“You have but to know an object by its proper name for it to lose its dangerous magic.” ~Elias Canetti

Her name is Elizabeth, and she’s made of no moving parts, or at least that’s what they told me when I bought her at Target’s electronics department. She wasn’t cheap, either, but that merely meant she was the best version amongst peers who couldn’t do as much as she could.

It was love at first sight, as I looked at her through the glass, as if she were one of those real life mannequins, one of those people who stand stock still and make money for it, content to stand or sit there while others observed. I knew she couldn’t see me, but I had money that said she would soon be mine.

Perhaps she was still there because to some she is big and bulky, a dinosaur from a different era that should be in a museum and not on a shelf. Indeed, I too was surprised she was there for me to purchase, but purchase her I did, and I haven’t regretted it for a second since.

Her predecessor’s name is Emily, and she belongs to my wife now. It was tough to give her up, but her memory just wasn’t what I could live with anymore, even though she is more svelte and compact than Elizabeth. I just had such a hard time dealing with the lack of options that Emily provided, and she is valued by my wife far more than I ever valued her.

Every night before I go to sleep I pray that nothing happens to Elizabeth, that she will still be in perfect working condition each morning, and for six years she has been exactly that every single day. Many relationships these days don’t last for six minutes, much less six years, so ours has been a sweet one. She gives me what I need, and I appreciate her more than words could ever say.

And she’s calling my name now. Well, she’s actually rapping an Eminem tune. But I’ll take it.

Sam