“Why’d you throw these away?!” my brother and I exclaimed upon seeing the pile of books that’d been marked to be thrown or donated, the former because it was easier and the latter because it’d assuage some of the built associated with book-burning.
We couldn’t believe what our mom had decided to discard. Among them were one of my favourite books, The Remains of the Day, as well as a book I had never read before but had always intended to, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.
My mom, visibly peeved that all her hard work cleaning up the mess we made was being met with disdainful incredulity as opposed to immense gratitude, shot back, “how many times have I told you to clean up your rooms?” Since we didn’t do it, she’d do it for us. Her way.
Well, to be honest, I don’t keep track of these kinds of things, but I really can’t recall the last time she did ask me or my bro to clean up the room. But even if she did, man, what are the chances we’d have followed up on it? Cleaning up the room’s like exercise, you know — it’s something we should and wish we would do, but it’s just something we don’t.