I pulled into the cul de sac tonight and parked my car. Because it was Tuesday, a lone black object waited by the curb, waited for attention, waited to be moved.
It was my old friend, the garbage can.
Tuesdays are our day for trash pick-up. Every other week we take out its blue companion, you know, for the recyclables. I parked the car and as is my custom, I took ahold of the handles in the back of the can and rolled it to its appointed destination.
And as I rolled it down the driveway, I thought about how it was only a week ago I did the same thing. It seemed like only a few days, but no, it was seven whole days.
Time can be measured in many ways. Almost everyone suddenly becomes an entire year older once they day of their birth comes around. The day before, they're an entire year younger. The next day--bam! Add another year.
Some mark time by the phase of the moon, month-to-month. Still others mark time by a factor of tens, decades, high school reunions and the like.
But me, every Tuesday, I realize another week has come and gone and it will only be seven days until I pull up my car after a full shift of work and grab hold of the black (and sometimes, blue...) handles and quietly replace the cans to their appointed destinations.
Unless, of course, someone else in the family gets to the cans first.