Green Bin Day
by Cheska Rivers
Cheska Rivers (she/her) grew up in Southern Africa before returning home to London. She has been published in literary magazines such as the Heartland Society of Women Writers and Impspired, and is currently working on her first novel.
Everyone hates Mondays. Thursdays are thirsty but Saturdays are the bubbles in our fizz. We thank God it's Friday, cheer each other over hump-day, and don’t ask about Sundays.
But shuffling in the background, like an anxious school kid, is Tuesday. His nervous hand shooting up to volunteer for the only task he’s capable of: "green bin day."
The sunlight piercing through the kitchen blinds is stronger than your rushed cup of tea. You hear the van approaching and abandon your mug on the counter. You manage to reach the end of the driveway before it hits you like an errant ball from someone else’s game. Mum has cancer.
The words seem alien. A quote from an old film or a conversation overheard on the train. Terrible for someone else, but just static for you.
There are so many metaphors for how strange and strong the motions of grief can be. Waves and winds, cycles and steps. But none of those shoes fit. And all you want to do is run barefoot in the grass till mum shouts at you. But the thought whips your eyes. So, you get dressed and start your day.
The tea is too hot, but at least it's a simple pain. Your insides turn solid, and you pray you undercooked the vegetables last night.
How long has it been? Five years? Almost ten? Hardly matters when they’re all just fractions of forever. You thought you'd dealt with this. But it turns out you just buried it in the darkest place inside you. And now you can't go anywhere near it in case you trip and fall in.
You sit at your desk. Skin weighed down by the thirty years since you first escaped your mother. The second time was so much more painful.
Will you miss arms which only held you from necessity? If only you were born sooner. By the time you got to the table, there was nothing left.
How do you explain it to people? "I don't care, but also, I care too much. And by the way, I hate myself for both."
What’s the point of dwelling? Even if dwelling is all you can do. Besides, you've got other things to worry about. People in pain who are easy to love.
You look outside at the box of gray, scouring the corners for that last bit of summer blue. Then you see it, mocking you through a closed mouth. Dressed in a nightgown of cobwebs and nestled between the hedges, there still sleeps Tuesday's bin.