Trash

It comes to me now that I realize everyone was once a child. Either a child being fed with a silver spoon, or a child that quivers in the corner from abuse.

Everyone was once a child thinking they had the whole world at their fingers. You thought the world would never change. At least this is what I thought.

I remember sitting on my childhood home’s doorstep, bouncing a ball, while my older brother fiddled with this new invention. A portable camera. It was virtually magic.

Now, as I stare at this trash can, I wonder where the magic has gone.

The trash is filled to the brim. It has a layer of, who knows, followed by a layer of white tissues, holding yellow snot, or crystal tears. On the very top is a small box, flipped over. It too holds tissues, and it’s there to keep the tide of trash from flowing out.

Occasionally I lean my entire body weight onto the box, compressing the trash more and more. I would rather do this than take it out. It’s too terrifying.

Based on this description you would think the rest of my home is a pigsty, full of molding food and breeding bugs, but this is not true. Everything in my home is neat and clean. Every item has been meticulously placed, each owning its own spot. While the objects may collect the occasional dust, they are never out of place. Everything is perfect, besides the trash.

Books are stacked on shelves superbly. Shoes are lined up like an army that has been whipped into a perfect submissive line. Pictures are hung on walls not an inch to the side. Every item knows its place. Every item brings happiness, besides the trash.

It distresses me and this is when I wish I was a child. Children cannot yet comprehend sadness. To them, it is a feeling, nothing more, and that is why I am jealous. I am jealous of the younger me sitting on my childhood home’s doorstep, bouncing a ball, while my older brother fiddled with this new invention. A portable camera. It was virtually magic.

I miss you and I wish you hadn’t run to father to show him your new device. I wish the Watsons weren’t coming home from a restaurant in their shiny automobile. I wish you would have looked before you crossed the street. I wish you never got that damned camera. I wish I never got the idea to save my pennies, nickels, and dimes so I could buy it for you.

I am trash.

I put a book I had just finished reading back in its place. I turn to the trash and that’s when I almost break. This trash that should have been thrown out months ago, the trash that was thought to be an eyesore, is exquisite. It’s in its correct place, so obsessively placed; every tissue balanced to perfection like a work of art. This trash has become part of me, just like every entity and gadget in this house that is used to fill the hole that was ripped out of me when you died, big brother.

I go to bed tonight just like every other night. I do not take out the trash. I think of every picture you would have taken with your camera and add more tissues to my pile.