He had told me he wanted to leave

He had told me he wanted to leave, not directly, naturally, bins can't talk. But subtle hints had silenlty snuck into my senses. (The smell was one) In mono sylabic odours he cried a sticky lament, "Even the flies have moved on, please it's time for me to go, I'm old enough to fend for myself, look I'm all grown up." (I had to admit, puberty was not sitting well with my baby bin) But the over protective parent was I, and couldn't bare to see my sweet, (and quite noticably filthy) brave new offspring depart. "Just stay a while... you see? I still need you" I would plead, in silent sniffs and glances. From time to time his friends the flys would return, mocking my young soldier with their new found idependence. (Those crazy 24 hour party popping shit eaters) As time passed (the smell increased) I realised I could give no more, My bin was full. Full of the wisdom I had imparted: The stale bread of life's hard lessons, empty cans of fatherly talks, the rotting food of eating properly, sticky tissues embarrasingly shuffling around the birds and the bees. My boy was all grown up, and I felt cheered, (or nautious, I couldn't tell) when on that fatefull day I returned from work, and my brave young bin greeted me with that oh so familiar greeting: the green odour of old advice. It was time for him to go... the thought brought a tear to my eye (Or that could have been the smell) So I wrapped him up in his bin bag smarts and set him on his way. He left without saying goodbye... ... And he never writes, ungrateful little sod. Written March 12th, 2002 © on Mar 12 2002 10:39 AM PST   0 • 14