The Life of a Pig

The Pig Has Grown Up. On a street corner in Chinatown, a refrigerated truck door swings open. Inside hang rows of pigs—pale, heavy, silent. Two men lift one down carefully, almost respectfully, as if handlingsomething sacred. A passerby pauses, a taxi glides by, and life continues as usual. The pedestrian sign above points left, like a quiet instruction for the living to keep moving. The pig has finished its journey. The truck drives on. The city keeps eating, keeps moving, keeps forgetting. The pig grew up—of course it did. That’s what everyone wanted, right? To grow, to become something. It just happened to become meat. There’s a strange calm in that logic, a peace so complete it almost feels holy. I take the picture, then step aside to let the truck pass.