I spend a lot of my life these days putting garbage in my...

…pockets, literally — unidentifiable crumbs, baby drool-soaked tissues, pebbles and salt our boots have tracked in from outside (I should probably vacuum) — things that I’d rather my baby not eat while he crawls and explores his little world but that I don’t have a moment to throw out until he’s down for a nap or I scoop him up and interrupt his mission to open all the kitchen cabinets and eviscerate their insides, and there’s something about this pocketing of trash then letting go of it later that embodies an aspirational quality, a trait we’d probably all like to have, the ability to acknowledge something you don’t want anymore, consider it for a second, then either rid yourself of it right away or only remember it, briefly, after it is expelled from your pocket while being run through the wash and appears unrecognizable, tattered, even less like itself, before you toss it away forever without a second thought, so from now on, I’m gonna trash lint and strings and other unwanted things like you wouldn’t believe.