Trash Cans:
An Excavation of Family as Midden Heap
(Part 4 - Mother)

Mother’s trash can graced the foot of the table wearing a royal blue silk dress, a string of graduated pearls, and Chanel No. 5. Her lid was warm to the touch. Black-capped chickadees flitted inside in the summer light, their two-note song evidence for her of holiness. Below were white sand beaches with sanderlings skirting the foaming surf, vases of yellow jonquils, bone china teacups, aprons for every occasion, floor-length satin gowns, Girl Scout newsletters, Robert’s Rules of Order, Rudolph Valentino, winning bridge hands, ballerina dreams, and the irrepressible heart of a Flapper. Embedded in a layer rich in buttermilk and graham crackers were the ashes of regret, shards of hope, points of insecurity.