Life is Beautiful — But Only in Tray Paradise
I went to a home store because I needed a tray.
Something modest. Something to carry toast and a sense of purpose.
I found one — small, polite, the kind of tray that says, “What a beautiful life.”
It was like trying to convince yourself, but… why not? I paid.
“You paid for both,” she said. “They come as a set.”
Then she handed me another tray. Huge. Titanic. It said Life is Beautiful.
“Life is beautiful,” I said.
“This one is different,” she said.
“What’s different?” I asked. “The other one was ‘What a beautiful life.’”
“So they’re different.”
“Okay. Anyway… I don’t need two trays.”
“Your guests?”
‘I don’t have any,’ I told her. ‘I’m a writer, an editor and an artist.’ And a psychotherapist. I’m already four people. There’s no space at home.
And in any case, I earn money from their pain: healing, writing, or editing. Or even worse: creating.
She smiled sympathetically — the way people do when they’re about to ignore your feelings.
“One is for you,” she said, “and the big one’s for when guests come.”
“But they don’t come. I live in a city where wearing orange makes you marginal.”
She insisted.
“Still, it’s nice to have hope.”
Life is Beautiful is one of my favourite films.
OK, let’s not think about it.
But let’s make an arrangement.
I’ll bring these crazy trays back to you when I leave the city.
