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Trash
Rolling thunder.
That’s what it sounds like. It arrives in a cloud of dust. It’s the biggest truck to come down my gravel driveway.
It’s Monday.
Trash day.
My trash bin is empty.
It always is.
But he comes anyway,
Religiously,
Every Monday of the year… week in, week out… rain or shine… holiday or not.
He never takes a vacation.
My trash is far too important for that.
I know because I see him make the sign of the cross as he enters my driveway.
I’m getting better,
My trash bin used to be bigger.
He stops the truck in front of my dumpster and
Waves at me as I watch from my kitchen window,
A patient but perplexed look on his face.
I smile and wave back as his truck lifts the trash bin up and over the cab.
A silent echo erupts as my refuse drops into the giant chasm in the bowels of the truck, never to return.
He’s Mexican.
I can tell by the brown skin, and black hair.
I don’t know his name.
I’ve never asked.
I call him Jesus…
Jesus de la Cruz.
I’m getting better.
I know I am.
My trash bin used to be bigger.
I watch with rapt attention as the truck slowly lowers the trash bin back onto its concrete pad.
My eyes follow the truck as it backs up, releasing itself from the weight of my weekly burden
I hear the thunder as he passes back down the driveway
I run to the living room widow to see him but he’s invisible behind the cloud of dust.
I sigh with relief.
I wipe a tear away, cup my face in my hands and shudder with gratitude.
I’m getting better.
I know I am,
My trash bin used to be bigger.
Its Sunday
I hear the bells calling me,
The open metal lids of the trash bin clanging gently against its sides as the wind blows.
I move solemnly,
Reverently, to my place beside the trash bin.
I come here every day. But only in passing.
Sunday is different.
I stay.
I stand motionless, my head bowed, and stare into my trash bin.
Other people don’t see what I see.
They tell me it’s empty.
I tell them I’m getting better.
My trash bin used to be bigger.
I place my fingers against my temples and rub.
It sooths the pounding in my head.
I place my hands over my heart and breathe…
Deeply.
I raise my arms and my eyes to the sky.
Slowly, I lower them above my empty trash bin
My fists tightly clenched…
I let go.
Some people think I’m crazy,
But I learned this secret long ago,
I give all my anger, resentments, and sorrows,
To the Trashman of the Soul.
A repentance metaphor
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