Proust on Plastic

'Biodegradable'

I possess a ring, symbolising a fragment of the past - not quite a relationship, but an extended acquaintance, borne from an eternally suspended courtship. Not so much a bond, but a connection, prone to interference, often subject to crosstalk.

The ring had a twin, a partner. No, it was a counterpart, an occasional companion; a sidekick. It may even have once co-starred in a poem.

But enough of poetry. It has had its day. Back to the ring.

I roll the ring in the palm of my hand, examining the curvature, and reflecting on how what goes around, comes around. Resting on the flat made by my fingers, it is disturbed by a gentle breeze, betraying its fickleness. I lift my palm towards my nose and try to trace a scent, to locate the trail, and follow it back, to see who it leads to now.

But the air serves only to conduct the sound of children playing outside my window in the early evening shade, and the secrets of the great spotted woodpeckers and jays spillover through their rhythms, songs and chants from the periphery of Lousehill Copse. There lingers the subtle recollection of freshly cut grass, hanging in the air, like a final, solitary tear on the verge of freefall. This provides the desired narcotic effect.

They say there is a place where we keep the letters, photos, trinkets and mementos. The attic, shed or shoe box atop the wardrobe. It provides words, pictures, context. But there are also imprints on the long-term memory, and in this pilgrim heart, I have left no room for sentimentality.

I caress the ring. The auric sheen rubs off.

I fling the ring towards the copse, to spare the landfill this petty burden.