Sad trash

There is something sad about trash. I mean, besides the business of abusing the planet. Trash is clearly the unwanted stuff of our lives. The broken bits and pieces, the used-up dregs.

There something about throwing out shoes that is sadder than tossing other stuff. I don't know why.

My poor sneakers are worn down to the point where the soles have cracked. I stopped wearing them because I got tired of pebbles and stickers and other irritants working their way inside and making me hobble like I was the walking wounded. They've been sitting on the floor for months now, waiting for me to move them out of my life.

Really, how hard could it be to just toss them? But no, not me. I've got shoe guilt. Not as bad as, say, putting down an ailing pet as a mercy, but not as easy as yanking up a weed in the flower bed.

They're in the trash now. I am resisting the urge to pull them out, give them another chance. There's only one way to make sure I won't, and that is to put other trash on top of them so I can't see them anymore. I swept the floor. Put the contents of the dustpan on top of the sneakers. It felt kind of like throwing the first handful of dirt onto the coffin.

I think I've done all I can for them now. I'll just have to let them go.