Once upon a time, in a faraway place deep within the waters of creation, a minuscule strand of RNA, squiggly and wiggly, developed, looking for a home, a place of comfort. It approached the closest pod, a cell, that accidentally left a door open. Not wanting to be a bother, the RNA slipped inside into a closet, where it did what it had to do, grow and become itself. Eventually it spread, splitting the closet door, filling the entire pod with duplication. Scientists worked twenty-five hours a day. Yes, twenty-five hours because time had warped and days were longer to rid the interloper from its home. Eventually, the answer was found. RNA strands were given homes in dying cells that needed plumping up.
Remember when we went to the gallery and found the landscape? You said the piece was little more than primordial bits, shapes, lines, surfacing from chaos, like fragments of us. I suggested it was integrated, balanced, and far more ordered than confused. We placed it over the mantle. Now, in the divorce, we each grapple for ownership of it, the pictified essence of incompatible temperaments.