Talking Waste by: Fatima Azeem

 Talking Waste

by: Fatima Azeem

When I was young, my parents told me a story. “Eat your food.” They said. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t like the vegetables they gave me, just like any other kid. So, they told me, one day, when my body is wrinkled and old, when my hair is gray and coarse, my body will lie among the soil of Earth, encased and hugged in moist dirt, like comfort talking away a soul. And when all is quiet and cold, the leftover veggies will visit me in the dark and ask me, “Why did you leave me alone? Why did you not eat me?” They would cry and say they were lonely, that they wished that I had eaten them, and that now they would have to stay with me under the grass and flowers, for all eternity. My bones would accompany them until the Sun expanded a mad red and engulfed our planet, silent. That is why I like broccoli and green beans now.