Nettie and I took our morning walk the other day, and came upon a disturbing sight.

From a distance, nothing seemed amiss with the car. A few papers on the dash. A discarded coffee cup. A messy person, we presumed.

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A few steps closer, though, the trash asserts itself. Filling the passenger seat, rising above the window line. Hmmm? Who could be this messy?

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Then, we got right up next to it, and realized the car was stuffed with trash, front seats and back. Now we thought, “Who is this crazy person?”

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As we walked around to the other side of the car, we could see a small pocket scrunched open for the driver to squeeze into, and I noticed that the car was actually compressing its shocks and squishing its tires.

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Does this trash weigh enough to do that?


Holy moly, what could be in the trunk?

What kind of hoarder is this? Is he a Dorian Gray character whose car reflects the depravity of his heart? And the trunk, that damn trunk, does it reflect the evil of his soul?

There was nothing we could do, though, no warning to sound, no one to call. So, Nettie and I continued on our walk, but I haven’t been able to get that trunk out of my mind.

Is it the hidden piece of all of us? Is that what’s bothering me? The trunk that hides our own darkness? Is this the heavy weight we carry around?

What is in my trunk, I wonder?

And why does it frighten me so?


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