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I was given to the D’Mangos as a wedding present; I was silver, sparkly, and pretty full of myself. I have survived two children, a family brawl, a window peeker, a couple of heartbreaks, one death, and a divorce.  Two years ago, I was awarded to the wife which wasn’t even fair since even the children got to go with the good one.

People used to admire me; comment on my pretty shiny self.  I’m a bit more tarnished now, seasoned is how the nice ones put it.  Yesterday the dreaded cousin who never says anything unless it’s dour or mean burst out laughing at me. “I love the way you have put a sticker over his face, so we cannot see it,” she said. I do not like to be laughed at.

I sigh, feeling sad that January which used to be my favorite time of year, is now the same as all the other months. January is when Mr. D’Mango would take me off the wall, and wipe me with Windex, and a soft green fluffy rag.  He would carefully bend back my nails and slide out my cardboard back, and lovingly wipe my glass front and back. He was a really nice man, Mr. D’Mango.

I have not had a good cleaning for three years, since Mr. D’Mango left, and I fell into the mercy of Mrs. D’Mango. Cleaning is something she must have skipped over when she was reading those Women magazines. Every one of her tables is overrun with books, trinkets, flashlight batteries, pencils, papers, erasers, and gum. The best thing I can say about the Mrs. D’Mango is that she is a gum-chewing knuckle-popping woman who snores prettily after a few bubbly beverages.  

The last time she took me off the wall, she bent my nails back a little too hard, and slammed me down on the cold, bare kitchen table with no finesse or gracefulness whatsoever.  Mr. D’Mango used to cautiously and carefully place me on a nice fluffy towel during my bath.  Yesterday when Mrs. D’Mango’s new free-loading friend Chester went up the stairs, he put his fingers on my glass, and swung me a little. I fancied him trying to kill me.

Today another of my kind fell off the wall on gangly Chester’s gallop up the stairs for smokes he had not paid for.  I jumped when she fell, the crash she made jumbled my nerves like nothing else ever has.  She sent me pleading “save me” looks from her sharp jagged, broken pieces.   Chester is on his cell phone now, shoveling my soon to be forgotten acquaintance into a box with a long angry broom.  Don’t worry, I’m taking it to the trash, he said.
I guess trash is another word for heaven?
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