Tonight I am like an old paper bag. Yesterday I brought home your treasures. The good smelling soap. The chocolate cookies. The raw vegetables and jars of sauces. I served my purpose diligently, proudly. Newly creased at the edges and at the top of my game. A new prize in the trunk of your car.
But tonight I am like an old paper bag. Worn at the seams. Wrinkled across the front. A small spot of grease someplace near the bottom. Crammed into the cupboard, left behind. Breathing that familiar paper smell. Sitting here alone.
Tomorrow you will find me. Fill me up with promises again. Three oranges. A sandwich in a bag. The bottom feels heavy, the strain a delight. The top edges will be rolled down, a crude handle. One step, two steps, three steps, four steps, just as you reach the stairs... my weaknesses exposed. The oranges roll away. The sandwich crushed. You mutter a profanity, kicking brown paper to the side. Collecting things in your arms, you hurl me into the trash. Cram the paper all the way to the bottom. A small wadded ball of brown, wrinkles reaching to unfold, to apologize. The crackle is audible, my efforts difficult and slow. Clumsy. You leave again without noticing. I sigh a pressed paper breath and resign myself to the bottom of this wastebasket.