Anadiplosis

Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.

My heart was broken. Broken into pieces. Pieces of love were scattered on the floor, as if my hopes had exploded, fragmented, and rained down in a torrent of loss, a deluge of disappointment, and painful precipitation.

My pet spider Ed had died. He was a banana spider from Hawaii. He had landed on my head when I was unloading papayas at SeaTac Airport. I had left him on the back porch over night. It went below 40 and he had frozen to death in his terrarium. I found him on his back with his legs curled up. His last meal of crickets had escaped death and were hopping around on his corpse. I picked them up one by one and pinched them to death for desecrating Ed.

Next, of course, I would bury him with the respect due to a close friend and confidant. When he was alive, I would sit up late with Ed and spill my fears and share my hopes. I was afraid that the IRS would catch up with me, especially after I got a letter informing me that I was being audited. I had lied about having $1,000,000 in medical bills for my loose brain—a condition where your brain is too small for your skull and it sloshes around, giving you thoughts you don’t understand. Scientifically, it is known as “Pea Brain.”

In a way, as a pea brain, you’re in an ideal position to be a philosopher, and if you get a PhD, you may succeed at being one and being a professor. The only known instance of becoming a pea brain philosopher was Dr. Huh? who taught symbolic logic and a course titled “Knowing Pink Floyd.” But anyway, the IRS determined that “Pea Brain” had been made up by Dr. Huh? in a grant proposal. Auditors charged him with fraud. Dr. Huh? argued that he did not understand and was let off with a slap on the wrist, in a way proving that “Pea Brain” was real.

My major hope was for world peace and free beer. Together, they would induce Utopia and we would live happily ever after—we would have ice cream, chocolate, scented candles and all the good things we are intended to have as human beings.

But now, it’s time to plant Ed. I dug a burrow hole six feet deep in the middle of the back yard. I stuffed him into a Romeo and Julietta cigar tube. I used a stick like a plunger. One of his legs came off, but it didn’t matter. I put the cap on and dropped him down the hole. I filled in the hole. I pushed a tongue depressor into the ground as a grave marker. It says “Here lies Ed, he is dead.” Everything was fine for two days, and then a squirrel dug up Ed’s marker and buried it somewhere.

I went back to work at the car wash yesterday. I am a rag man. I am still very sad about Ed, and feel guilt over my negligence that killed him. But there’s a saying I’ve seized on that is helping me cope: “Fu*ck it.” It’s what my mother said when my father went missing. She still says it once or twice a day. I am following her lead.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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