Irreversible Lies

Irreversible Lies


Lies, lies, lies;
irreversible lies.
Seven times seventy times more
I have forgiven all of you,
only to place my picked off scab within your hands, again.

My depleted heart can no longer heal itself.
This band-aid box is empty and discarded;
not carefully placed into the recycling bin, either; but, tossed
blindly out our living room window; to go on display in our
front yard so that passers-by can command judgement against our household.

"That is the So and So's house, Little Tommy. See their disregard
for nature? See how they litter our planet? That metal band-aid box could have been recycled. We don't do that, do we Little Tommy?"

"No, Momma, we don't."

Through the seasons, the band-aid box lays as a reminder to Little Tommy. Two years past two years since it was tossed, it lays, red and brown corrosive rust, bleeding into the dead grass beneath it.

Little Tommy is older and full of budding wisdom and the proud arrogance that accompanies it. He needs the So and So's to understand that they just can't destroy our planet like this. He steps into their front yard, picks up the corroding band-aid box, and brings it with him to our front door.

I answer his knock.



"Excuse me, Mrs. So and So," he says politely. (His politically correct mother has taught him good manners, also.) "I found this in your front yard, and knew that you would want to place it into your recycle box."

I don't know what to say to this man-child, for I understand that his intentions are good. I don't have an answer for him.

"Mrs. So and So, did you hear me?"

"Yes, Little Tommy, I heard you."

The man-child winces at the sound of his baby name. "I like to be called, Thomas, now, Mrs. So and So."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Thomas."

"Here's your box," he says, thrusting it towards me.

"I have no use for that box, anymore, Thomas."

"Then, it should be recycled, Mrs. So and So."

Why does everything have to be a moral issue, Little Tommies of the world?

If I take the box from him, Little Tommy will believe that it is okay to correct adults. If I don't, he could become angry with adults for their ignorance. Both options will hurt someone. Which decision hurts less?

"I will take the band-aid box to the recycling plant, Thomas. But, there is something that you must know. Not everything is as it seems."

Thomas does not understand my words as he leaves. At least, he has more to think about besides how right it was for him to challenge authority.

I take the rusty box, and only the rusty box, to the metal plant. I ask for the manager, and personally hand it to him. Every worker that sees or hears of my actions believe me to be insane, or at the least, a bit senile. That's okay, I have certified papers to confirm their suspicions. I leave the plant, stumbling my way back to my car. The plant manager tosses the can into a bin. The bin is hoisted onto a belt; the belt passes under the water sprays; the boiling water purifies away some of the metal's diseases; the bin empties into a hopper; the hopper empties into a shredder; the shredder does its business, then shoots the shards further down into the smelting process.

Months pass.

Lies, lies, lies;
irreversible lies.
Seven times seventy times more,
I have forgiven all of you.
My depleted heart can't pump fast enough.
I awaken with a band-aid box pace-maker.

Little Tommy? Tommy? Thomas?
Electric shocks keep me alive, now, when my heart just wanted to rest.

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