Trash Cans:
An Excavation of Family as Midden Heap
(Part 2 - Aunt Florence)

Aunt Florence’s spinster trash can wore a housedress of violet pansies buttoned to her throat, a cameo pin, and an embroidered hankie tucked in her side pocket. Her lid clanged against the can when I opened it, setting off an echo from deep inside. I peered down into the sparsely furnished core. Three stenographer pads, one Smith-Corona typewriter, two carefully pressed business suits, one slice of burnt toast, one bandaged heart, five quarters for the bus ride to work, one swimsuit, one sweet tooth, a host of blushes, and one dapper young gentleman in seersucker and straw disappearing behind a blizzard of scriptures from Science and Health.