Trash Cans:
An Excavation of Family as Midden Heap
(Part 5 - Elliott)

Elliott’s trash can sat in rumpled gray Dickies, flannel shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. His lid was stuck. I yanked until it gave way with a sticky ripping sound. Mother’s marshmallow frosting! I knew I was never getting my fair share. Cached in the gooey mess were Dagwood sandwiches, Rocky Mountain oysters from the ranch where our brother-in-law was the foreman, school-yard bullies, USGA maps, a VW microbus filled with camping gear, the violin he crafted at the Dushkin School of Music, worn-out excuses, Heathkit components, short-wave radios, cameras, and developing baths. A sudden fissure in the marshmallow frosting revealed a girl with summer-blond hair waving goodbye out a car window as her family leaves the campground.