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Ah, the day after Christmas, tea in hand, carnage behind and garbage underfoot. “Let’s just stay in our jammies and read the paper” “Oh shoot, is that the sound of garbage day?”
Out of his seat in a flash, dashing cross the lawn, green bin in hand. The sacrifice of modern husband whose morbid fear that anyone (other than I) should see him in pajamas long forgotten, this brave soul makes it in time to see the guy on the back of the truck just as it pulls away. Blessed must be this man’s heart for he waves with a work-gloved hand to said husband to a spot across the street where such bin may be safely laid for pick up on the way back.
Mortified is our teenaged daugther that a photo of her dad may end up on facebook or her mother may post the story for the world. She was settled with a “hush now, dear” neither shall happen, there, there, put your earbuds back in, surely music will soothe.”
The garbage at the end of such a festive season used to signal to me such waste, such North American blatant overconsumption. Until my Vietnamese Hairdresser (and trusted advisor) helped me see otherwise. He, who floated amongst the dead and dying of his fellow refugees for days and days with nothing in sight but water. But, not unlike the story of Noah and the dove with the olive branch, one day, did arrive a sign. A sighting of civilization so profound that it gave them hope. A visual reminder that others did indeed live and may take them in. Finally….garbage. Floating upon the water, refuse, discard, junk.
The sign that they had become close enough to the promised land to see another day was so simple as this. This stuff that my warrior ran to the man with the gloved hand who showed us where to leave our junk. This reminder that me and mine have lived another year as ecologically aware as we could be but still producing junk. We are us, we are a civilization who have collectively, to varying degrees, generated our share. Thanks to the man with the gloved hand, we aren’t drowning in it. Thanks to the man with the gentle hands who makes my hair look pretty who helps me see that we may be doomed but it isn’t all bad. Thanks to the man in grey pajamas who carried it across the street. And, thanks to the holiday that is behind us. I shall read the paper in my jammies, now, and discard it later for recycling.
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