one man's trash {lyndis}

Snow turns the earth into a black and white photo, a polaroid image with varying shades of grey and no color. I suppose it's generally colorless here, where coal dust fills the air and collects under our nails and sticks permanently to our skin, but something about winter and snow solidifies that black-and-white feeling. Kind of hopeless in a way, but I try not to fall into that. I've got a family to take care of. I've got mom and my sisters and baby Aaron to look after. Five hungry mouths to feed, plus my own, if it's possible. Sometimes it isn't. In that case I melt the snow and boil some greens in it and hope my complaining stomach doesn't keep everyone awake when the light disappears.

Winter brings cold, cold destroys our food, and too little food means starvation for us. I can't let that happen. So on days when it gets this bad, when ice covers the cobblestone streets and half-melted snow piles up against the buildings, when icy rain pelts against my yellow-and-blue jacket and all I can think about is the pain in my stomach, I hit the trash cans behind the merchant's shops. I go later in the day, when everyone is tucked away in their homes, safe from the cold. Some windows provide a beam of warm light on the grey streets, some show only a dark, black square among the bricks of the building. I look for the warm ones. The ones where the family has pulled away into their homes, where they have enough money to provide warmth and light, where their eyes will have a difficult time adjusting the dim light outside the house. These are the buildings I look for.

I tip-toe along the side of the alley behind the Town Square, my foot steps disguised mainly by the pitter-patter of rain against ice and stone and glass and brick. Wide eyes flicker back and forth warily, searching for anyone who might catch me. I don't see anyone, so I dart forward, hands reaching out for the trash can sitting next to a short set of steps. I lift the lid and set it aside. It doesn't smell half-bad, which means the food hasn't rotted yet, so I stick my hands in, sifting through empty containers and cardboard and plastic until I find something edible. There's not much, but my fingers eventually latch on to something hard and round. Glee written across my face, I yank it out, and lay eyes on a bright red apple. There's a chunk taken out of it that's turned sort of brown, and I can feel a squishy spot under my thumb. Probably why whoever was eating it didn't finish. With a grin, I stuff it in my pocket, and plunge my hands back in to the mix of garbage.

{Word Count: 475}