Toaster

I am a toaster.

See them walk toward me, saying, “Wouldn’t a spot of toast be lovely? We haven’t had it for quite some time.”

See them see me, but only as a toaster. Only as one object, defined by my function.

I am a toaster.

See them come together, in their conference room, Ivy League coffee mugs in hand, thinking.

“Yes, a toaster, I do believe, would do the job quite nicely.”

See them look at me. Inspect my label. Evaluate my fellow kitchen appliances. 

As if my label changes the electric current that pulses through me. Why should a name affect my value? As if the kitchen appliances around me change me. Why compare a toaster to a blender? I was not made to blend.

I am a toaster.

See them push down my trigger. Waiting, tension in my springs, the aching of suspense.

See me burn my soul to create something beautiful, something golden, something I am supposed to make.

See them ignore my struggle.

See them focus only on the toast, and whether they might like it best with jelly or jam.

I am a toaster.

See me pop. Free at last. I have done all I can do.

See me realize, too late, that it was all for naught. That I burned the bread. Extra crispy.

I am a toaster.

See my soul go cold. See my stainless-steel exterior reflect only what they want to see. See them walk away, saying, “If only that toaster had stopped a few seconds earlier. Then we might have been able to accept the toast as part of our meal.”

Yet I am a toaster, see me toast.