I Can’t Let Go

Sometimes it takes another person to tell you it’s time to let go, to say goodbye.

For days it had been hanging on. Just when I thought it was finished, it gasped back to life once more. I felt it still had a few more days left in it.

A obviously didn’t.

When I went into the bathroom this morning, my tired looking trusty can of shaving gel had been moved from its position beside my razor on the sink. It was sitting, alone, on the tiled bench. A shiny new model was already sidling up to the razor.

shaving gel

The message was loud and clear – I’m tired of seeing this empty can, dump it.

I stared at the gel, torn. It was good for a another couple of shaves at least. If I turned it upside down, gave it a few shakes and pumped its head furiously it would reward me with a thin, weak drizzle of gel.

But I already had a new can, full of life and thick foam.

For someone who spent their first decade in a house where the toilet was outside and bathing involved a getting into a tin bath in front of the fire, dumping things before they were really, really done still doesn’t come easily.

That was another century.

Reluctantly I picked up the can and dropped it into the bin.

A will be happy I took the hint.

But I feel wasteful.


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