Garbage and Garbage

The Tragedy of the Trash Heap

It began with a single polythene bag, a vile parcel of garbage hurled before my eyes, like a blemish on a pristine canvas, in the verdant field where I walk my loyal dog. The sight was as revolting as a fly in one’s soup. I bellowed at the culprit, but my voice, caught in the wind’s cruel jest, was swept behind me like a whisper lost in a storm. Even if my words had reached him, I suspect he’d have brushed them off like water off a duck’s back or defended his littering with the fiery restlessness that burned in his eyes that morning. After forty-nine years of navigating life’s winding paths, I’ve learned to read people faster than a hawk spots its prey—though, I confess, this gift often leads me to judge too hastily, a habit as unwise as sailing without a compass.

That bag marked the first stain on the eleven-acre field, a sinister omen of a budding public dump. It pains me to admit that humanity has turned nearly forty percent of this land into a graveyard of refuse, with the rest reduced to gravel and sparse patches for weary walkers. That polythene bag, clutching its dusty contents, stood like a Pied Piper, luring others to add their trash to the pile. I considered picking it up and disposing of it properly—though, in truth, our municipality offers no such sanctuary for waste, a scandal as plain as day. I could have carried it home, where a garbage van dutifully collects household refuse, but procrastination, that thief of time, whispered in my ear, and I drove away, leaving the bag to fester. In hindsight, that was a decision as regrettable as locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.

By the next dawn, three more bags had joined the first, comrades in filth, mocking my inaction. My heart sank like a stone, for my delay had birthed this growing heap. My younger son and I resolved to clear the mess, ferrying the bags to a designated collector, but the damage was done. The field had become a beacon for litterbugs, proof that the human mind, like a river, seeks the path of least resistance.

I prayed the following morning would bring relief, but instead, I was greeted by a mountain of trash, a monstrous pile that seemed to have sprouted overnight. To my astonishment, I learned a trash collector was to blame. This man, tasked with gathering waste, found it easier to dump his hauls—three times daily—here before moving to a larger collection site. He’d empty his van after picking up wet and dry refuse from homes, only to abandon these heaps, leaving Mother Earth to bear the burden. To call it forgetfulness would be as naive as trusting a fox to guard the henhouse; this was deliberate laziness, a shirking of social responsibility as blatant as a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

This travesty has now become the norm. The field, once a green haven, is a festering wound, drawing cattle, crows, eagles, and stray dogs to a grim ecosystem sustained by refuse. Cattle herders, relieved their beasts have found “free food,” turn a blind eye, as does the municipality, which has mastered the art of looking the other way. When citizens like me raise complaints, the authorities resort to a barbaric solution: they set the trash ablaze on a sunny day, cloaked in secrecy, releasing a poisonous smog that chokes the air. As long as the smoke rises to the heavens, they care not for the harm it wreaks on humans, birds, or beasts. The arsonist, far from the scene, remains untouched, his conscience as clean as a whistle.

In school, we’re taught to dispose of waste responsibly—recycling, composting, reusing—yet reality paints a different picture, as stark as night and day. The final blow came during a walk with my son and dog. A familiar shoe and a cardboard box caught my eye, glinting like a ghost from my past. Upon closer inspection, I realized they were mine, discarded from my home two days prior. Racing home, I confronted my wife, who admitted she’d dumped the trash in the field’s growing pile. “The garbage collector hasn’t come in two days,” she explained, “and I needed to keep our house clean.” When I pressed her on why she’d chosen the open ground, her reply cut like a knife: “If everyone else does it, why shouldn’t we? What else can we do?”

My blood boiled, my chest tightened, and I stood speechless, agony washing over me like a tidal wave. Without a word, I turned away, my head bowed in defeat. The sun, as if mirroring my shame, slipped behind the horizon, ending its shift with a quiet retreat. When I was looking at the floor, ducking my head down, I visualized the same person who first threw the garbage in front of me was someone like my wife, apparently—a soul caught in the same web of convenience and compromise, their actions mirroring each other like reflections in a shattered mirror.