It’s not your fault. You couldn’t control what they did with your tree of origin, the log it became, what they finally turned you into. You are neither spoon nor stick — there is no name for you, except for the phony one they branded you with, umlaut and all, when the language they were trying to imitate doesn’t even have an umlaut in it. You will never be part of a roll-top desk, to be cherished for years, loved all the more for the character scratches. Instead they chose to make you tiny and disposable and relegate you to a five-minute, strictly utilitarian life. Not that I’m an expert, but I think your own acquired imperfections, chocolate splotches on your surface, will only work to your disadvantage by making you non-recyclable. Clearly, they don’t care. They have tossed you carelessly onto blue flagstone with no regard for your immediate future or afterlife. All that lies ahead for you is delivery to the landfill, where you will be seen as part of the problem. You don’t deserve that fate. May I pick you up, rinse you off, take you to my home? You can become the wee weeder for my house plants — peace lilies, amaryllis and more. If you’re okay with that, stay where you are. I will find you.
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Rona Altrows writes fiction, essays, and plays. Her most recent book, At This Juncture, is made up of fictional letters, and she has two earlier books of short fiction, A Run on Hose and Key in Lock. The chapbook The River Throws a Tantrum gives voice to a child’s experience of a natural disaster. Rona has co-edited two theme-based anthologies, Waiting (with Julie Sedivy), released in Fall, 2018, and Shy (with Naomi K. Lewis). She can be found at http://www.ronaaltrows.com
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Up Next:
“Vodka (on the way home)”
The Litter I See Project 