He comes every Tuesday.
The engine's low growl and the frequent squeal of overmatched brakes audible long before he rounds the corner. My son jumping up and down at the front door alerting me to the approaching Twuck! Twuck!
Stepping outside in pajama pants and robe, I make my way to my usual vantage point on the porch sipping my second cup of coffee. Kenyan this morning. Jack has already shot across the front lawn and is standing on the lower horizontal rung of the picket fence. Peering over the wickets, silently urging the big, yellow truck to round the bend already, he bounces in unrestrained glee. Have I ever been so free?
To delighted peals of laughter, the garbage truck makes the turn onto our street. It stops at the neighbor's house, collects its haul, returns the black can to the sidewalk and moves on. At Randy's house. Now at Steve's.
All that stands between us now is AJ's place.
Here he comes. Chuffing the horn and waiving to Jack, the garbage man rumbles past the fence enroute to the can on the other side of the driveway.
As the mechanical arm effortlessly hoists the full can which I pulled to the curb the night before with such difficulty, I am as mesmerized as my son. Another week's worth of clutter and debris whisked away.
We both stand rooted in place as the truck makes its way down the street. To Marcy's. Now the neighbor beyond whom we have never met. The nice couple with the young children. The odd family with the anti-abortion stickers on their cars, religious idols in the yard and recumbent bicycles in the garage. The kindly, older bachelor with the little pug and FSBO sign in the yard. The retired couple with the fake flowers on the front walk and Green Bay Packer paraphernalia which reminds them of home.
The street's burden relieved, the garbage man makes a right turn at the stop sign and disappears.
Only now does Jack climb down from the fence and dash back across the grass into Daddy's arms. Scooping him up, I linger for the briefest moment before sauntering back across the threshold to my day. The faint echoes of the truck's passage gone, the air feels cool and clean. Possibilities endless.
Brought to by the little hand which tugs at my own, I ruffle his hair and head inside.
Time to get started on this week's mess.
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Paul, my boys got excited too. Fun times. Now I have to scream to get them to carry it out on Tuesday's. What a difference a few years makes.