Symploce (sim’-plo-see or sim’-plo-kee): The combination of anaphora and epistrophe: beginning a series of lines, clauses, or sentences with the same word or phrase while simultaneously repeating a different word or phrase at the end of each element in this series.
There was a time when I gave a damn. There was a place that was worth a damn. There was a suit I wore that made me go “woah damn,” Everything’s in the past—a tower of memories babbling in my brain like a polluted brook outside the factory in New Jersey where they make glow-in-the-dark radioactive key rings at the dawn of the keyless epoch. And Margie used to matter, going bald from the radioactivity, with bleeding gums, and chronic diarrhea, and corns. She could barely talk and maybe that’s why I loved her. Her cognitive capacities had deteriorated to the point that she couldn’t talk back without tremendous effort that would induce an attack of diarrhea. So, Margie was docile—like one of Bo Peep’s sheep, wandering quietly through life in the pasture of the shadow of death.
We moved in together. We had four children. None with birth defects. When we moved in together, I figured she had around 6 months to live. Instead, she lived 10 years. We were not wealthy, or even middle class. We were poor. I stole a shopping cart from Hannaford’s to take her for walks. We would go to the park and I would splash water on her from the park’s fountain and take selfies together with the gazebo in the background, or a random squirrel. She loved laying on her back, rolling along, looking at the sky. I thought of her as my Tiny Tim from “A Christmas Carol.” I had planned on parking her empty shopping cart by our fireplace after she died. Then, I realized we didn’t have a fireplace and had to change my plan. Instead, I was going to park the shopping cart in the back yard, like a birdbath, as a sort of memorial.
When my dear Margie finally died, I needed to get a suit for her funeral. The children had a lot of money from their scratch-off lotto winnings. I had stolen 4 Take Fives when the Cliff’s clerk wasn’t looking. Between them, they had won $1500. On the other hand, my unemployment benefits had run out, and although my new job polishing slot machines and emptying ashtrays started the next week at the casino, I had nothing. It was so bad that we were burying Margie in a cardboard casket. The casket was closed at the funeral to save money on clothing for Margie by burying her in her favorite pajamas. At least, I wanted to look my best for the funeral. I didn’t know what to do.
When I was walking home, I saw a container that looked like a dumpster. There was a slotted opening, and above the slot it said “Clothing Here” with an arrow pointing down at the slot. I thought it would be hard to shop there because the entrance was narrow and required athletic abilities to negotiate. I climbed up anyway, and in I went.. I landed on a dead man. He was wearing a beautiful suit—just my size. It was black silk. I wrestled it off of him. I put the suit on. It, along with his shoes, were a perfect fit. I climbed out of “Clothes Here”and went home.
The funeral was beautiful. The kids looked like angels and I looked like a Mafia hit man. When I saw my reflection in a mirror, chills went down my spine and I did a little dance. My friend “Chainsaw Labatt” gave the eulogy. He is a professional wrestler and Margie was his biggest fan. He talked about tearing off death’s head and feeding it to ravens. It was beautiful.
My first day of work at the casino, I wore my suit. I was given an instant promotion. My new job is to watch for card counters at the blackjack tables. I have purchased four black silk suits. Even though I’m bitter about Margie’s death, things are slowly improving. Her shopping cart in the back yard has become home to a family of raccoons.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.