Taking Out the Trash Ruthie Mayfield

Taking Out the Trash

Ruthie Mayfield

I step outside, holding the heavy plastic bag an arm’s length away as I shut the mud room door behind me. I breathe in and hear a sweet little bird twittering around the live oak and crepe myrtle trees that line our backyard, and the bird remains unseen. I look past the tall trees, into the gap that reveals our “backhouse” , our best family friends/neighbor's yard enclosed in a separate neighborhood. But the separation of neighborhoods provides no separation at all between the two families. A door was cut to connect our two homes in the adjoining fence the first week we moved into the house, and since the constant exchange of people and borrowed eggs and escaped dogs was a regular, the “backhouse” was an apt name. My family incidentally moving behind great friends was such a fortunate thing to happen, and one of the many things I will happily count among the blessings in my life.

I continue to walk towards the black iron fence and mechanically open the gate’s latch. I’m just wearing socks without shoes, tiptoeing down the concrete steps. I turn to assure myself that the gate behind me has been swung back hard enough to securely lock it and keep my spotted, pretty and sweet dog safe inside. Once I’m down the steps I hear a whining sound, and look down as the cat (the name he is commonly and humbly referred to as), slips with little difficulty through the bars of the fence and looks back up at me. He doesn’t need to be kept inside like our dog, and he gladly presents himself as the cause of the whining noise. I had just fed him not two minutes before. I speak to him affectionately before stepping over his all-black body and towards the bin, with an overcast sky and warm wind covering and watching it all, bringing pleasure to the whole of us. Now to open the heavy lid I have to pull it toward myself out of its resting place so I can prop it up against the gate. I then sling the bag slightly backward and then forward, holding my breath with a greater show of difficulty than necessary, into the already full trash bin. It lands cushioned inside and jostles its new neighbors cordially and with a plastic-y sound. I close the lid and sigh. I look around at the gray clouds, taking it all in, feeling the familiar breeze of winter gliding into spring, already conjuring up exciting promises of summer to come. What a world we live in. What a sky, what sounds, what joy. What feelings a step outside the door never fails to bring. What a blessing to those who know to see it.

I love taking out the trash.