Compost

The white ceramic sink was split into two deep wells with a peculiar parade of strawberries dancing on its edges. It was a constant, stalwart dweller of the lofty kitchen, soundly holding the entire room together. The cool, creamy porcelain felt like ice when I slapped black-bottomed, bare feet into the low reservoirs. It was a sharp, echoing noise that would tantalize my restless toes several times a day. Once sheltered in its thick shell, the sour smell of eager food remains shook my aloof mind into focus. I squatted down further into the comforting basin and peered over the dividing weir at the fat pail feasting itself on the living remnants of dinners past. The organic mess simmered together in a pool of unrecognizable carcasses. The pungent aroma drifted with urgency to my nose. I tried to postpone my duties by operating the svelte, silver faucet for a few minutes; letting the sulfur water collect and wash the dirt from my feet. Perhaps, if I did not look, it would simply get up and move away on its own. I stirred the idea around for a bit, but I could not avoid the sink’s pleading expression and hoisted myself from the great cavity. The dismal sound of landing on the slick linoleum seemed pitiful compared to the satisfying clap that had made the startled dishes clink with displeasure.

With the swinging collection of spoiling waste in hand, I left the grateful kitchen and marched to the massive mound of compost. Its breaths were slow and melodic with the overwhelming heap of unwanted vegetation pressing on its chest. Somehow, with each step, the obese mass seemed to beg for even more of the curdled mess. The mountain rose high with mangled nests of chicken bones, green watermelon rinds hinting at life with crisp white borders, and the familiar shape and riveted texture of abandoned peanut shells. The slumping peaks of velvet mold steam and the valleys of delicately cracked egg exoskeletons team with iridescent flies.

I dump the dingy squalor I have come to sacrifice onto the great giant. An onslaught of tall corn cob corpses, hollowed out skeletons of sweet potatoes and butternut squash, and dried veils of fragile onion skins. The pile admires its new decaying gift, taking a minute to bask in its filth. With a final gesture of approval, the corpulent beast thanks me with a heavy, bacteria laden wheeze.