Bin Day
I tear off a bin liner and begin in the kitchen. Spices we never used; asafoetida, saffron and zatar are trash. Saucers, sauce-boats and saucy fridge magnets. From the dresser; your late mother’s silver cruets are recyclable into solar panels. From the bathroom; lubricant jelly and last Christmas’s antidepressants. From the bedroom; yoga mats and the Working Couple's Karma Sutra. I feel facial winkles flatten out. From the living-room, the family photos, books of haiku and scatter cushions are excess. Stepping into the bin liner is a liberation, a delicious weariness. I knot off from the inside and re-read your note. ‘Tuesday. Bin Day. Remember!’ Your notes are a sales pitch for euthanasia. The light inside the bin liner is black, the air, womby. I feel like an eggshell, broken, but with some inner purpose. The calcium in me is good fertiliser. I can be puréed and added to toothpaste.
