It's garbage day and I've dumped the recycling from the can to the bin, dumped the compost from the little kitchen container to the other bin, and as I set the empty compost container in the sink to soak, I go over to our calendar, tacked to the wall, to see if this week is a garbage week or a non-garbage week. The city takes the compost, the recycling, the glass every week, but the garbage only every other. I have garbage day notated on the calendar on every other Monday with a little g.
This Monday has no g. Not a garbage day. But my eyes tick to Tuesday, where Stephen's handwriting says:
Nicholas Day
The words hit like a warm, soft thud in my chest. A whole year tomorrow since we said goodbye.
I think about this as I drag the garden-clipping-and-compost bin down along the side of the house to the curb. My little boy. I should pay some sort of tribute. Share some pictures. What would I say?
What comes to mind is that I feel Nicholas in all the little beings I see, somehow. The squirrels that run across the fence with their question mark tails, the birds that hop in the trees.
I walk back from the curb and along the side of the house.
What comes to mind is, sometimes I worry that I let go too soon. Sometimes I worry that I held on too long.
As I grab hold of the handle of the big blue plastic recycling bin, I see the asterisked translucent threads of a spiderweb running from the bin to the fence. The spider sitting dead center trembles with the movement as my hand tips the bin up just so slightly and then stops.
I stand there holding the bin at that little angle for a moment.
Then set it back down. I'll take out the recycling next week.
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