It is a ridiculous time to be at the zoo. A foot of new snow covers the ground, and they are practically alone. They see a young couple on a date and one other family: a woman, a man, and two children.
James has brought a sled, and he pulls Maddy when she gets tired of running through the deep, wet snow. There are only a few animals out. The camels are standing strong—they are super shaggy—and the brown bears are positively frisky. James and Maddy duck into buildings to see otters and reptiles. But the animals aren’t the highlight. The zoo itself is. The wide-open space, the feeling of utter desolation. The broad boulevard, the main causeway of the zoo, stands in front of them with nothing but markless snow, and James can’t help but think that it is a metaphor for his life.
He says this to Maddy.
“I think this is a metaphor for my life,” he says.
Maddy looks up at him from the sled.
“What’s a metaphor?”
She is six. James wonders whether she should know what a metaphor is yet. The young couple comes out of the butterfly house, laughing about something. This was a good date for them. This is a date they will remember for all their years together. It will become a touchstone moment. It might make it into their vows when they get married. It will be something they occasionally bring up when they are reminding each other how much they love each other. Remember how original our love is? No one else was at the zoo that day (except that one man and his daughter). It will be something that comes to mind when they wonder why their relationship is less fresh than it once was. We used to be so spontaneous. We used to be the only people who would do crazy things like go to the zoo in a snowstorm. What happened to that couple?
“A metaphor is when you compare two different things,” James says. She doesn’t say anything, so James knows she is thinking.
“Like this,” he says. “Your sled’s fast, right? What animal here is fast?”
“A bat.”
“Well, no. Bats are always sleeping. Choose a better animal. Faster.”
“But bats fly fast.”
“Every time we’ve ever been to the bat house, the bats just hang there, sleeping.”
“I like bats.”
He looks around, frustrated. The young couple comes out of the amphibian house now. The woman scoops up snow, makes a snowball, throws it at the man. It’s a real throw, not just playful and flirtatious, but that makes it seem more intimate, not less.
“Fine,” James says. “Your sled is a bat.”
They are fifty feet behind the young couple, both heading in the direction of the polar bear. James is a bat. The couple is a sled. Or two sleds. Two sleds going down the same hill. James is nowhere near this couple, nor will he ever be. He is not fast. He is a bat, asleep, under some other hill. And the hills aren’t even in the same city. Or even the same state.
“My sled is a bat? That doesn’t make sense, Daddy,” Maddy says, shaking her head. She stands up and stomps through the snow, away from him. The sled trails behind him, light and empty. The couple has disappeared.
