Heritage Sponges

At least once a month the stench from my kitchen sponge gets so bad I refuse one more soap saturation of this primitive sessile. Why is it that I can’t toss these replicas of marine life, amongst the simplest animal form, free of tissues, muscles, nerves and internal organs? After all, during the course of one day I toss out all sorts of rubbish—paper towels, chicken bones, cheese rind, empty cartons, newspapers and rotten fruit, but have developed a deep attachment with this soggy, smelly two-dollar purchase. I take it into my hands and scan it, as if looking for the spot of defending stench or to hear the ocean from where it came. Finally, I decide to toss the thing into the dishwasher with my daily load, to keep it vital a little longer, perhaps a day or a week or at least until I’m able to establish a degree of separation from this rectangular block. My only explanation for this drama is my daughter is a vegetarian and animal rights’ activist, and like her, I want to save all creatures.