While on my way to dispose of a breakfast of which I only took three bites, I noticed something that has broken my heart: The sixteenth craft I made at preschool this week, stuffed into the garbage beneath a layer of yesterday’s trash as if I wouldn’t find it.
No, not the one with the blue crayon circles. Also, no, not the paint handprints that mysteriously had some other kid’s name spelled backward on it. I’m talking about the one with the eight star stickers, a singular macaroni noodle glued to the top, and a few smudges of pink marker, wrinkled from when I shoved it in my backpack. Yes, there’s a hole in the middle from where I pressed the marker down too hard, repeatedly rubbing it in violent circles like I was trying to murder my canvas, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to dispose of it without my permission.
