In the days after the funeral, we all kept to ourselves. My sister and I had decided to stay at home for a few weeks, to make sure everything was okay. I was in no hurry to get back to my life in the city.
I was walking into the kitchen one night when I noticed Mom was staring at something. When I walked closer I noticed what it was. My graying mother was standing two feet from the trash can, her eyes watering. The can was full.
“I haven’t taken out the garbage in forty seven years.” she said, as she fell into a chair, clutching the small bit of emotional consciousness she had left.
I knew in that moment something changed. We realized that life was going to be different, in the smallest ways.The man who had taught me to ride a bike in the backyard, caught me smoking on the back porch with my friends, given me my first drink in the garage the day I turned eighteen- he was gone.
“I don’t even know what day the garbage truck runs.”
Note: Between 2010 and 2016 (ages 15-21) I had a blog in which I wrote poetry, or parts of poetry, or things that I thought sounded neat. I wrote growing up, moving out, grieving a friend, beginning to date, falling in love, and breaking up, among other things. I am disclosing select poems from the blog which I feel proud of. Please be empathetic to my 15-21 aged self who was finding her voice and her place.