You’re surrounded by boxes, some already labeled and taped shut, others not yet formed. I freeze in the doorway, unsure I want to disturb you. Maybe if I silently walk out, I won’t have to help you. But you’re my mother so of course I’m helping you move. Even if I disapprove. Even if I think you bought a house on an impulsive whim. A state of mania. What’s done is done and besides, this house is no longer yours. It sold within days because it’s a beautiful house with a massive yard that you claim is too big and I agree. But moving to a city even further away from the daughter you claim you want to move closer to doesn’t make any sense. But I say none of these things. “Do you need help?” Your head snaps up and you beckon me so I dutifully approach. “Here. Take these. Whatever you don’t want, I’m throwing away.” She pushes a stack of heavy photo albums toward me. They slide on the hardwood floor before falling in front of me like dominos. I’m shocked. “I thought you loved these old photos.” I flip through the familiar albums. Me at five years old. Dad and me in my knee high socks. My Dorothy Hamill haircut. The three of us in Taiwan in front of Grandma’s front door. My mother’s crooked jaw not yet fixed. Her blonde hair then brown. “You’re throwing away pictures?” What mother does that? Aren’t mothers supposed to be the ones who never throw away pictures? Who berate everyone else for doing this exact thing? “I don’t have room for them.” I take all of them home with me. I can’t bear to think of them lying in a trash can. A dumpster. A landfill. Our little family. Forever forgotten.
What comes to mind isn’t something I threw away, but something I gave away - my daughter’s Barbie dollhouse and dolls. She’d outgrown her Barbie stuff and it had made its way to the basement for storage. The basement was where I took everything that we no longer used. I threw old clothes on the spare bed down there. I put things like her Barbie house in the closet under the stairs.
The clothes ended up in bags.
The bags began to pile up. They were in the laundry room in a pile in the corner. They were near the bed. Eventually, there were on the bed. When I finally took them to the car to take to a donation place, there were 17 of them. Seventeen of the large 55 gallon black trash bags.
As I took each bag from the basement to the trunk or backseat of my car, I felt a weight lifting. It felt oh so good. I kept going. After I dropped off the bags, I came back for what was in the closet.
It would be years before I regretted taking her Barbie stuff to the donation place. It was when I started thinking of my own Barbie stuff that I also don’t have thanks to my mom. My stuff was precious. I lived with my aunt until I was six and she made me my Barbie clothes. I had a little Barbie case that had a compartment for the Barbie and a separate one for her clothes.
My aunt had made all my Barbie clothes. She had sewn them herself. It was the one thing I wanted to keep that reminded me of her. For some reason, my mom thought differently. Much like I did the morning I cleaned out the closet.
Loved Kelly's microprose..... So lyrical... Symbolic
Wbh 228 the trash of humanity
I'm a day late with this but I wrote!
A Mother’s Trash (302)
You’re surrounded by boxes, some already labeled and taped shut, others not yet formed. I freeze in the doorway, unsure I want to disturb you. Maybe if I silently walk out, I won’t have to help you. But you’re my mother so of course I’m helping you move. Even if I disapprove. Even if I think you bought a house on an impulsive whim. A state of mania. What’s done is done and besides, this house is no longer yours. It sold within days because it’s a beautiful house with a massive yard that you claim is too big and I agree. But moving to a city even further away from the daughter you claim you want to move closer to doesn’t make any sense. But I say none of these things. “Do you need help?” Your head snaps up and you beckon me so I dutifully approach. “Here. Take these. Whatever you don’t want, I’m throwing away.” She pushes a stack of heavy photo albums toward me. They slide on the hardwood floor before falling in front of me like dominos. I’m shocked. “I thought you loved these old photos.” I flip through the familiar albums. Me at five years old. Dad and me in my knee high socks. My Dorothy Hamill haircut. The three of us in Taiwan in front of Grandma’s front door. My mother’s crooked jaw not yet fixed. Her blonde hair then brown. “You’re throwing away pictures?” What mother does that? Aren’t mothers supposed to be the ones who never throw away pictures? Who berate everyone else for doing this exact thing? “I don’t have room for them.” I take all of them home with me. I can’t bear to think of them lying in a trash can. A dumpster. A landfill. Our little family. Forever forgotten.
Kelli's Blueprint is lovely — and so are you.
Generational Barbie - 298 Words
What comes to mind isn’t something I threw away, but something I gave away - my daughter’s Barbie dollhouse and dolls. She’d outgrown her Barbie stuff and it had made its way to the basement for storage. The basement was where I took everything that we no longer used. I threw old clothes on the spare bed down there. I put things like her Barbie house in the closet under the stairs.
The clothes ended up in bags.
The bags began to pile up. They were in the laundry room in a pile in the corner. They were near the bed. Eventually, there were on the bed. When I finally took them to the car to take to a donation place, there were 17 of them. Seventeen of the large 55 gallon black trash bags.
As I took each bag from the basement to the trunk or backseat of my car, I felt a weight lifting. It felt oh so good. I kept going. After I dropped off the bags, I came back for what was in the closet.
It would be years before I regretted taking her Barbie stuff to the donation place. It was when I started thinking of my own Barbie stuff that I also don’t have thanks to my mom. My stuff was precious. I lived with my aunt until I was six and she made me my Barbie clothes. I had a little Barbie case that had a compartment for the Barbie and a separate one for her clothes.
My aunt had made all my Barbie clothes. She had sewn them herself. It was the one thing I wanted to keep that reminded me of her. For some reason, my mom thought differently. Much like I did the morning I cleaned out the closet.
"My good ideas aren't always good. But one day, they will be, and that hope will become a dream come true."
Rolando Andrade