Garbage bags. Presented to me in person or dropped at my door, they
contain a number of small personal items. A toothbrush, a travel-sized
hairdryer, a pair of socks, maybe a paperback or a magazine. Traces of
my presence, packaged like banana peels and used q-tips. Their meaning clear, the energy that created them as cold as the wind that blows in my face, when I open the door to discover them, or drag them downstairs to my car.
They succeed in transferring my old friend's anger and pain, and
they sit on my kitchen floor like lumpy misshapen amends that I now owe. After a while, I cut them free from their plastic tomb, and warm them
with the reassurance of home. I want to be indignant, but I accept my
role. I find comfort in being home and warm. And I look for the lesson, as icicles shrink.
